Instinct (29 page)

‘Gone, gone,' Aleef said, tears welling up in his eyes.

‘Who is gone? What is his name?'

‘Akram  . . . Jamil Akram,' Aleef confirmed.

‘And where has he gone?'

‘To finish what he started.'

SIXTEEN

‘
S
uited and booted and now he's in the traps with a gaoler watching over him. He's asked for the duty solicitor, so we'll just wait for him to land.'

Henry nodded as Rik explained this and they walked down the dingy corridor towards the exit that would take them to the underground police garage.

‘Did he say anything?'

‘No, just blubbered a lot.'

Henry pushed the door and the detectives walked out into the chilly garage. They made their way across to the plain Astra that had been used by PC Driver. Henry now had the key and clicked the remote to unlock it. As they approached the car they were pulling on latex gloves. Henry lifted the hatchback under which they had found the trussed up girl and looked at the items remaining. The girl was now in hospital being looked after by a policewoman, her parents on the way to the station. She was a mess.

In the hatchback was a Nike sports bag that had not been looked at yet. Other items in the boot, untouched as yet by the detectives, included a full face ski mask with eye holes, a pair of overalls, a pair of trainers and a roll of duct tape.

Henry's mouth turned down distastefully. ‘What do we know about Driver?'

‘Not that much yet,' Rik answered. ‘Just recently transferred up from Wiltshire, apparently, posted straight to Poulton  . . . apart from that, I don't know him. I suppose it'll be a morning job for accessing his HR file.'

‘Not unless we knock up the HR manager.'

‘True,' Rik concurred, liking the thought. ‘How did the chief take the news?'

Whilst Rik had been booking the prisoner into custody, Henry had done his duty by informing the people who needed to know about things like a police constable being arrested on suspicion of rape and abduction. He'd phoned the divisional commanders of Blackpool and Northern divisions, the on-call ACC and the chief himself, all of whom had been tucked up in nice warm beds.

‘Grumpy old man at being woken up. Like prodding a hibernating grizzly. But more irate at being told one of his finest had been arrested for such serious offences – but also pleased it might take us somewhere with the rape investigation. A real conflict of emotion.'

The two men looked from item to item in the hatchback, then Henry carefully unzipped the sports bag.

‘He must have been getting out of these overalls when he was at the back of the car, when we couldn't see what he was doing,' Rik said.

‘Which is why he only had half his uniform on. Caught in the act.' Henry hooked his forefinger on to the zip and gently pulled the sports bag open, peered in and shone his mini Maglite torch into it. ‘Shit,' he said. He reached in and slowly extracted a long, fine silk scarf, held it up and then looked at Rik, who even in the crap garage lighting went noticeably pale.

‘Trophy bag,' Rik gulped.

Henry nodded slowly. ‘This looks incredibly like the scarf that Natalie Philips had around her neck on the photo her mum provided for us.'

‘I know,' Rik whispered. Both men could have been sick there and then.

Henry's mobile rang. He slowly replaced the scarf back into the bag and answered it.

‘Henry – you awake?' It was Karl Donaldson.

‘I am now.'

‘Good, can you speak, or are you  . . . y'know?'

‘I am just a bit busy, actually. Police work busy.'

‘Henry – do you know what time it is?'

‘Yeah, well as they say on TV, crime won't crack itself.'

‘But you're a superintendent! Aren't you supposed to be tucked up, beddy-byes? You're not setting a good example.'

‘Never have done  . . . anyway, why're you still up? You've been living in this country long enough, surely you're not still suffering from jet-lag?'

‘Funny guy, huh? Even us Yanks work late occasionally.'

‘OK, banter over and out. What do you want?'

‘That apartment those suicide bombers were using?'

‘Apartment?' Henry said. ‘That's a bit strong. Even calling it a flat is pushing it.'

‘You know what I mean.'

‘Just teasing.'

‘You got any CSIs on call could do something for me?'

‘At the flat? Hasn't it all been done?'

‘Yep, at the flat.'

‘When, now?'

‘Yes, and you might need a plumber, too.'

‘Karl – what the fuck are you talking about? It's late and I'm dealing with something unpleasant.'

‘I wanna stick my fingers in a U-bend.'

‘Why, exactly?'

Donaldson told him but he sounded like he was talking with his head in a bucket, and though Henry listened hard he only got half a tale. Irritably, Henry said, ‘Where are you now?'

‘M6 northbound, just passing Rugby.'

‘Two hours away,' Henry calculated, even on empty roads and especially in Donaldson's hulking four-wheel drive monstrosity. Henry pondered a second, mulling logistics. ‘Tell you what, head for my house and I'll meet you there. Get a couple of hours sleep, nothing's going to spoil in the meantime, and I'll arrange to meet a CSI at seven this morning. How does that sound?'

‘Too lazy, but I'll go for it.'

At the same moment as Henry ended that call, Steve Flynn was making a call on his mobile phone to a number in the UK.

The phone in the bedroom rang out shrilly, but only the man in the bed stirred and reached out for it, almost knocking everything off the bedside cabinet in his grogginess. The woman next to him, his wife, turned over and dragged the duvet off him and continued to snore softly.

‘Un-huh,' the man said.

‘It's me, Steve Flynn – and don't you dare fucking hang up Jerry.'

The man in the bed, Detective Constable Jerry Tope, squinted at the bedside clock and muttered something which, though indecipherable, was clear in its meaning.

‘I take it you're in bed,' Flynn said.

Tope gave an affirmative grunt and said, ‘Whajjawan?'

Flynn managed a slight grin. ‘Get yourself out of there, away from the warm clutches of your lovely missus, and get your brain working – I need to pick it.'

‘And if I don't?'

‘Just hand the phone over to Marina, and I'll have a little discussion with her.'

By that time, Tope had sat up and swung his legs out of bed, the phone to his right ear, his left hand scrunching his face into life.

‘I can't talk to you, Flynn, you get me in shit,' Tope whined.

‘If you don't talk to me, you'll be in real shit – personally and professionally, guaranteed.'

Tope glanced at the sleeping mound in the bed, exhaled wearily and said, ‘Give us a second.'

He stood up and padded out of the bedroom in his PJs, his top tucked neatly into the bottoms, cursing the fact he had ever become involved in a cover-up with Flynn.

Way back they had been police buddies, colleagues verging on friends, in the halcyon days before Flynn fell out with the police hierarchy and became a pariah. After a particularly riotous night out in Preston, a Tuesday, on one of those nights known colloquially as ‘Grab-a-granny', when it was alleged that slightly older and more experienced women were out on the razz and were easy prey, Tope, amazing himself, had done something very silly with a lady who
was
actually a grandmother – at the ripe old age of thirty-four. It was a sordid tryst that ended up with Tope pleading with Flynn to provide a cover story for him in order to put his highly suspicious wife off the scent. Flynn had done him the favour, saved the marriage and Tope had learned a very salutary lesson.

What neither man expected was that Flynn would eventually use this piece of knowledge to prise information out of Tope after leaving the police. Flynn had only done this on a couple of desperate occasions and, in truth, got no joy from doing it. But it was certainly handy to have a lever on someone like Tope who worked as a DC on the Intelligence Unit, which gave him a position of great knowledge. It also helped that Tope was also a highly skilled interrogator of computers. A hacker, in other words.

‘What is it?' Tope asked bluntly, sitting down heavily on the settee in the lounge.

‘Serious stuff. I need some information.'

‘I will lose my fucking job,' Tope hissed. He looked around to check he wasn't being watched by the surveillance branch.

‘Not on this one, you won't. This time it's commendations all round.'

‘Not with you, Steve.' Tope's voice rose towards hysterical.

‘OK – how does this grab you as an opener? Where is Jamil Akram?'

The phone went silent as Tope digested this. ‘Who?'

‘Don't fuck with me, Jerry, or I'll catch the next flight to Blackpool and come knocking on your door.'

‘I don't know where he is.'

‘Does anybody?'

‘I wouldn't know, would I?'

‘He managed to get out of the UK and disappear, didn't he?'

‘Common knowledge.'

‘After he'd set up two stupid lads as suicide bombers.'

‘If you say so.'

‘I do. Look, I'm not screwing around here,' Flynn growled. ‘What would you say if I told you I knew where he'd run to, where he was less than forty-eight hours ago and where he probably is now?'

‘I'd say talk to Henry Christie.'

‘That twat?'

‘First name that came to mind  . . . er  . . . er  . . . yes, him. If you purport to know so much, you'll know he had some serious involvement with one of the suicide bombers. He's a good port of call.'

Flynn closed his eyes in despair. Being told to speak to Henry Christie was like being told to stuff razor blades into his mouth – painful. Ever since he had left the cops under a cloud of suspicion, Flynn had harboured a festering dislike and distrust of Henry, who he saw as the person who'd pushed him out of the job. Not that Flynn really had evidence to back that up, but Henry was a good target for his ire.

‘Give me his number.'

Tope did so and Flynn ended the call.

Flynn was still in the bedroom of the house in Banjul. Four dead men lay in spreading pools of blood in the living area and Aleef, the middleman, sat shaking in one corner of the room, his face a bruised, swollen and bloody mess. He nursed his left hand, the little finger of which had been bent backwards and snapped like a dry twig by Flynn. He had been prepared to go for every single finger, one at a time, but Aleef had screamed, pleaded for mercy and promised to tell him everything he knew. Just let him live.

Flynn turned slowly back to him like the devil and Aleef whimpered under his gaze.

Over three thousand miles to the north of Flynn's position, a communications operative/intelligence analyst based at the government listening station, GCHQ, in Gloucestershire sat back in his comfortable chair and removed his earphones. He held up a finger and signalled to his supervisor, who rushed down from her raised dais and leaned over his shoulder.

‘What've you got?' she asked.

Interview room one. Henry and Rik sat on one side of the bolted down table. On the opposite side sat Driver and the duty solicitor. The audio and video tapes were running, the camera recording the interview was fitted high in one corner of the room, protected by a fine mesh grill. Rik had done the introductions and made it clear that the interview was being carried out at this time of day with the consent of the accused and his solicitor.

Henry watched this introductory phase. His mobile phone was in his jeans pocket. It vibrated. He removed it and surreptitiously checked it, but the caller ID said, ‘Unknown number'.

He frowned, slid it back, then focused on what was being said, before remembering he'd told Alison he'd be home by now.

Rik folded his arms. ‘You know why you've been arrested, you've agreed to talk to us; what would you like to say?'

Driver was in the spacious zoot suit, the billowing paper forensic suit and slippers, provided for him after his clothing had been seized. He sat with his hands clasped between his thighs, rocking slightly, a hunted expression in his eyes.

‘No doubt you've found it,' he said.

‘Found what?'

‘The scarf.'

‘Which scarf?'

‘The one in the holdall.'

‘You need to explain its significance,' Rik said, revealing nothing. It was always better to let the prisoner do the talking. Let them fill in their own gaps.

‘It's the one I took from Natalie Philips.'

There was a beat. Henry's arse twitched. Rik said, ‘Go on.'

Driver shrugged pathetically, beaten and knowing it. ‘I was on a corrie run –' he uttered a little snort – ‘I saw her sitting on the kerb, carrying her shoes, barefoot.' He sounded wistful. ‘She looked upset. I stopped to see if I could help her, y'know, me being a cop and all that.'

Henry's chest cavity seemed to tighten up as if a corkscrew was winding his insides around. His phone vibrated again.

‘Anyway, she got in the car. I said I'd take her home.' Driver's voice was now monotone and emotionless. ‘I knew I was going to rape her.'

Silence in the room.

‘And after I raped her, I knew I had to kill her. You see,' he raised his face as though he was explaining something simple and straightforward, ‘she was the only one who knew I was a cop. That's why she had to die. The rest didn't know – like her tonight. She wouldn't have known I was a police officer. Change of clothing. Plain car. Radio off. Mask on.' He tapped his nose conspiratorially and Henry had to stop himself from flying across the table and beating the little shit to a messy pulp.

‘How many more are we talking about?' Rik asked.