Critical Threat

Eleven

Henry woke at 6 a.m., feeling refreshed after six hours’ uninterrupted sleep, batteries recharged. He had a long, medium-hot shower, then dressed in the suit that Kate had packed for him. He wandered down for an early, leisurely breakfast, which he scoffed with the delight of a man not picking up the tab.

He spent the next hour sitting in the huge reception area, his ear affixed to his mobile phone, talking tactics with Angela Cranlow, who remained curiously professionally detached, which puzzled him but at the same time pleased him; maybe she was backing off. He also spoke to some members of the SPMS.

Graeme Walling, the ex-NCIS detective now floundering in the wasteland of Special Projects, had thoroughly enjoyed himself dealing with two grisly post-mortems. He thanked Henry profusely for the opportunity and reported that the PMs didn’t tell them anything they hadn’t already surmised, but did confirm that Jackie Kippax had an advanced form of cancer of the stomach which would have given her only a few months to live. That would answer the question as to why she turned the shotgun on herself, but they would never know what was said between her and Darren Langmead, a dialogue that had died with the both of them. Walling would be spending the day doing follow-up inquiries for an inquest scheduled early next week, just for the purpose of identification. The full inquest would take place way in the future.

‘The pathologist sends you her regards, by the way,’ Walling said.

‘Professor O’Connell?’

‘That’s the one. She also said to tell you she’s sorry you missed your chance, whatever that means, but there could be an opportunity to try again due to a vacancy if you wanted. Does that make sense to you?’

‘Yep — perfect,’ Henry said.

He next spoke to one of the people he’d sent to Blackburn to do some digging into Darren Langmead to see if there was any truth in Kippax’s assertion that he had threatened Eddie Daley over Daley’s investigation into the alleged embezzlement from the Class Act. Nothing had come to light; neither had Eddie Daley’s computer turned up. Henry gave instructions to trace Johnny Strongitharm, the club’s owner, to find out if he had contracted Eddie to investigate Langmead.

Lots of things were going on. His team were buzzing in a way they had never done before.

It was amazing what a sense of purpose and a pat on the back could do.

After the phone calls, Henry spoke to Kate, who sounded bubbly and full of life and plans. He felt dreadful as he ended the call.

‘So bleedin’ weak,’ he chided himself.

He’d brought a soft leather business case with him into which he’d packed printouts of the digital photographs from Jackie Kippax’s computer, all blown up to A4 size. He fished them out and had a good long look at them. They had lost none of their sharpness on enlargement, not even the one that had zoomed in on the necklace around the woman’s neck.

It was a very unusual pendant on the chain, he had to admit, though he didn’t know too much about this sort of thing. It had an oriental look about it, two serpents wrapped around an orchid, quite understated and expensive.

He examined the photographs closely.

She was definitely a beautiful woman. He had compared them to the photos of the facial reconstruction and there was a very strong likeness.

So was she the burned corpse?

Was she called Sabera Ismat?

Or was this woman still alive and was he barking up the wrong tree?

But more importantly, was there a chance of him getting one over on Dave Anger? Whilst he did not really want this woman to be dead, part of him hoped she was.

His mobile rang.

‘Henry, it’s Jenny Fisher at the office.’

Jenny with the attitude. ‘Hi, Jen, what can I do for you?’

‘Just an update for you … you asked me to make some inquiries about the medical qualifications of this Ismat woman?’ Henry told her to go on, which she did, telling Henry where and when Sabera got her degree, did her medical training. ‘But, guess what? She’s a Blackburn lass according to university records.’

‘Which fits in with the geological profile of the dead woman,’ Henry said.

‘Certainly does.’

‘Jenny, you’re a star.’

He almost heard her purr down the line.

The photographs were spread across the coffee table in front of him. He pulled them together with the best one on top, one just of the woman with the pretty young Asian lady in the background.

‘Hello, Sabera,’ he said, now feeling very confident that this trip south was worthwhile. ‘What’s your story?’ He knew there and then that she was dead. Just for good measure Henry gave a one finger salute to his mental picture of Dave Anger. ‘Swivel, you git,’ he said, picked everything up and went across to the doorman to arrange for his luggage to be stored and to get him to wave down a taxi.

As slow as it was in the monumental traffic, travelling by cab across London was definitely great fun. Henry did not often get to London, so he looked upon it as a treat and loved seeing the sights, travelling down roads and streets he’d only ever heard of in films, TV or whilst playing Monopoly.

As the cab turned out of Caxton Street, he caught sight of New Scotland Yard and the spinning, triangular sign which always looked bigger and far more impressive on TV. In real life it was a disappointment, as was Scotland Yard itself. Just a dull office building, squeezed in tight amongst others, with no atmosphere about it at all. Very uninspiring.

He was driven firstly around Buckingham Palace, then generally in a south-westerly direction across the city. The next sign he recognized was Sloane Square, was amazed to see a Lamborghini dealership, then on to King’s Road and right up Sloane Avenue, cutting across Fulham Road, then across on to Old Brompton Road and he knew he wasn’t far away from Earl’s Court then. The taxi passed Brompton Cemetery, then on his right he caught sight of the towering Empress Building which he knew the Metropolitan police now leased, a far more impressive building than Scotland Yard.

‘Here we go,’ the cabbie said, pulling into the side of the road. ‘Empress Medical Centre.’ Henry peered through the window and saw the centre looking, as expected, exactly the same as on the website.

He paid and took a receipt before stepping out of the cab, and watched a low-flying jumbo jet passing overhead on its descent into Heathrow to the west.

He breathed in the London air, then looked at his target. He loved going unannounced into places, to take his chances with jobs like these, just to gauge the reactions of people not prepared for the cop-knock on their door. It was like being a cat amongst pigeons, sometimes, watching them scatter in fear.

Or, as he said out loud to no one in particular, ‘Pig in the city.’

The health centre was much like thousands the country over. He walked through an automatic sliding door, across a plant-adorned foyer and into the reception area, joining a short queue at the desk. The place was busy and the waiting area quite full of miserable looking people.

As he reached the front of the queue, he wasn’t even sure what he was going to say. As usual, he was going to wing it. He produced his warrant card for the receptionist and introduced himself. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Henry Christie from Lancashire Constabulary … I wonder if I could have a word with your practice manager, please.’

‘Could I say what about?’

He pushed his card into his top pocket. ‘Not really,’ he said painfully. ‘A delicate matter, police business.’

‘OK.’ She picked up a phone and punched in a number. ‘Helen? It’s Rachel on reception … there’s a police officer here wishing to see you … no, he didn’t say … OK.’ She hung up. ‘She’ll be along in a couple of minutes. Would you like to take a seat?’

Henry stood browsing the notice boards, fearing for his very existence if he didn’t eat five portions of fruit and veg per day, didn’t exercise for twenty minutes, three times a week, and had erection problems. Sometimes he wished he did have the latter. An erect penis had put him in so many hairy situations.

A pleasant looking middle-aged lady appeared by his side, smelling strongly of smoke. ‘Hello. I’m Helen Baxter, the practice manager. I hope I haven’t done anything wrong, but if I have, I don’t mind being handcuffed.’

It was an admission that stumped Henry for a moment.

‘Just kidding,’ she said and tapped him on the arm.

‘Ha ha.’

‘So what can I do for you, DCI Christie, is it?’

‘Yes, it was an odd thing,’ Mrs Baxter — ‘call me Helen’ — was saying as she looked at the photograph Henry produced from his case. It was a close-up of the woman’s face with no one else in it. ‘She just upped and went.’

‘So this is definitely Sabera Ismat?’

They had retreated to Mrs Baxter’s small office in the far reaches of the health centre and were awaiting tea. She was being helpful in a playful sort of way.

‘Oh yes, that’s definitely her. She came as a locum and then started running a sort of clinic/self-help group for Asian women who’d been abused. It was very popular and she was doing some good work. But to be fair, I can’t say I knew her all that well.’

There was a knock on the door and an Asian lady came in bearing a tray of tea and biscuits.

‘Excuse me,’ she said politely.

‘That’s OK, Aysha — just put the tray down here.’ She pointed to a coffee table by the desk. Henry glanced at the woman and his glance turned to a squint as he recognized her as the Asian woman positioned behind Sabera Ismat in one of the photographs. She began laying out the cups and saucers.

‘So she just disappeared?’ Henry said, slowly taking back the photograph from Mrs Baxter.

There was a clatter and a crash as a cup dropped on to the tray. It did not break. The tea-bearing lady said sorry and stood the cup upright on a saucer.

‘You can let us do the mothering,’ Mrs Baxter said.

The young woman turned to leave and Henry watched her go, fleetingly catching her eye, seeing a troubled look on her face.

He did the honours and poured the tea. ‘What do you know about her, then?’

‘Not a lot, really,’ Mrs Baxter said thoughtfully. ‘Look, what is this about?’

‘I just need to find her and speak to her about something. Beyond that, I can’t really tell you a lot. You understand?’

Mrs Baxter tapped her nose. ‘Police business?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Mm, OK, let me think … she sort of came from nowhere, I suppose. Dr Khan took her on. He wanted her to start immediately as a locum, even without interview, but that’s not too unusual. Dr Khan’s one of the practice partners and what he says goes, I suppose.’

Henry nodded. ‘Does he know what happened to her?’

‘He told me she’d had to deal with a family emergency. I asked him if she’d be coming back and he said he doubted it.’

Henry nodded. ‘I need to speak to him, then, I suppose.’ He paused. ‘Do you have any employment records for her, just out of interest?’

‘I do.’ Mrs Baxter rose and crossed the office to a filing cabinet. She slid open the top drawer and riffled through the suspension files with her fingertips. She got to the end, then worked her way back, muttering, then started her search again. ‘Odd,’ she said, this time going slowly through the files, peering carefully at the tabs. ‘Strange … her file isn’t here … and I know I haven’t archived it.’

They were words which sent a suspicious tingle down Henry’s spine. As ever, when he became excited by the prospect of prey, his bum twitched with anticipation. ‘Is Dr Khan in today?’ he asked calmly.

‘I haven’t actually seen him, to be honest,’ Mrs Baxter said, her face still down looking for the missing file. ‘He is in, though, because he had an early surgery, although …’ She raised her head and looked at the wall clock. ‘He could well be out on home visits now.’

She slammed the filing cabinet drawer shut. ‘Not here,’ she pouted, ‘definitely not here.’ Back at her desk she picked up the phone and dialled an extension at which there was obviously no response. She redialled. ‘Oh, hello Aysha, it’s Helen … has Dr Khan gone out on home visits? Yes? Right, OK, thanks for that.’ She hung up and said, ‘About half an hour ago.’

‘Right.’

‘He’s usually out all morning, but he has another surgery at two. Why don’t you call back about one thirty? He should be in by then, and available.’

‘I might just do that.’

‘Can I ask you something?’

‘Fire away.’

‘Is Sabera in trouble?’

Henry got a brief mental glimpse of a pathetic, charred corpse. ‘Like I said,’ he grimaced in a way which suggested he really would like to tell her something, ‘I can’t really say.’

‘I understand,’ she said with disappointment. ‘Ooh, I know! She was quite friendly with Aysha, the lady who came in here with the tea? She’s a receptionist. I think her and Sabera were pretty pally. It might be worth having a chat with her.’

‘Sounds good.’

‘Come on.’ Mrs Baxter stood up and led Henry back through the complex. ‘You’ve come a long way,’ she commented. Henry nodded. ‘Sabera was from up north, I’m pretty sure. Blackburn, I think.’ She led Henry to a door at the back of the reception desk. ‘Rachel?’ she called to the girl who had greeted Henry earlier. ‘Is Aysha about?’

Rachel, sitting at the counter behind the Plexiglass screen, turned with a harassed expression. There was a queue of patients and two phones were ringing. She was the only one there. She glared at Mrs Baxter. ‘No, she just put her coat on and dashed out, leaving me to sort all this.’ She held up her hands to indicate her world of chaos.

‘Where has she gone?’

‘How would I know? Just ran out.’ Rachel forced a smile at one of the people in front of her and said, ‘Just one moment,’ then picked up a phone and said a curt, ‘Yes?’

Mrs Baxter turned to Henry. ‘Strange.’

‘Lots of strange things going on, but no matter,’ he said. ‘I’ll pop back and see Dr Khan later … and thanks for your assistance … Helen …’ He shook her hand quickly and headed at a pace for the exit on the off chance he might be able to catch up with the receptionist who had gone AWOL.

The pavements were still wet from the overnight downpour, but the rain had ceased and the clouds were dispersing. Henry rushed out of the health centre clutching his briefcase under his arm and dashed on to Old Brompton Road, scanning as he went.

The young woman could not have gone far, but as Henry knew, people could disappear within the blink of an eye. He had no way of knowing in which direction she had legged it, so he took a fifty/fifty chance, followed his instinct and hurried towards the West Brompton tube station on the District Line and caught sight of her standing on the road bridge opposite Earl’s Court Exhibition Centre spanning the underground line. She was talking into her mobile phone, constantly looking around as she did, as though the cops might be after her. Henry ducked into a doorway, keeping her in sight, his arse doing some real twitching now.

Was it coincidence she had done a runner from work on the very morning he’d turned up asking a few questions and showing photographs?

Naah.

Although he was not close enough to hear her, he could tell she was screaming down the phone, gesticulating as she spoke, until the call ended. She looked at it with frustration, as though she was going to lob it over the bridge, shaking it angrily. Spinning on her heels, she crossed over the bridge, staying on the same side of the road, and scuttled away.

Henry stepped out from cover, began to follow.

He stayed about fifty metres behind her as she rushed past the entrance to Brompton Cemetery. Henry glanced to his right and caught sight of Stamford Bridge football ground, home of Chelsea FC, giving an involuntary shiver at the thought of all the money that had been ploughed into it.

Aysha walked across the junction with Finborough Road, then Redcliffe Gardens, pushing in a north-easterly direction towards South Kensington.

It was easy to tail her using buildings and other people for cover, and because she did not once look back over her shoulder.

Suddenly she turned into a Starbucks and went out of view.

Henry stopped, again relying on his instincts and what little he knew of the woman. She was a health centre receptionist, seemed to be in a panic, wasn’t likely to be versed in street-craft, so he guessed it would be unlikely she had spotted him and gone straight through Starbucks and out the back. He needed to get in a position from where he could monitor the front door. There was a Costa Coffee shop diagonally opposite on the other side of the road. He crossed quickly, took the chance to buy a coffee and wedged himself into a window seat, placed his briefcase on the window ledge, settled down and waited whilst churning the morning’s events and discoveries through his brain.

If Sabera was the burned-out corpse, then he believed he had just unearthed a very good suspect for her murder in Dr Khan — someone who at the very least had some hard questions to answer — and possibly an accomplice, too, in the form of Aysha.

Henry was having great fun. And the coffee tasted great.

He did not have to hang around long.

Ten minutes later, a man he instantly recognized walked hastily past his window, a matter of only three feet away, then crossed the road and entered Starbucks.

He waited a few moments. Let him settle. Let him get a brew.

A smile came to Henry’s face, the kind of smile a cat gives when it’s been amongst the pigeons and is now about to lick the cream.

The couple were sitting at one of the tables in Starbucks, in deep but agitated conversation. They didn’t even see Henry enter the cafe, didn’t even look up as he wove his way between tables, chairs and other customers.

It took a couple of seconds before they even registered he was standing behind them, rather like the spectre of their consciences.

They turned slowly, theatrically, faces horror-struck, plastered with guilt.

The kind of expressions Henry enjoyed seeing.

‘Mornin’,’ he said, grinning.

Unfortunately, his ebullient approach to the situation meant that he dropped his guard and unexpectedly, the man who he knew to be Dr Khan, twisted round hard and drove his elbow into Henry’s groin with all the force he could muster.

Aysha stood up and screamed.

Henry doubled over, dropping his briefcase, both hands instinctively covering his testicles, whilst he blew out like a whale.

Khan shot to his feet and pushed him over backwards, again with force, knocking him over a chair and sending him sprawling into another table at which two young mothers were sitting gabbing with their offspring in prams next to them. Henry’s right knee gave way at that moment and he fell between them, sending their hot frothy drinks everywhere. He just caught a glimpse of Khan’s feet running past him.

He reached out to grab, but the doctor sidestepped neatly and was gone.

There was no time to apologize. He heaved himself up using a table, rising wet from the spilled coffee, aware of the stunned faces of the customers and shouts of dismay and anger.

Henry had a decision to make: should he bag Aysha or go for the doctor?

He somehow knew that the doctor was the one he needed most.

He jabbed his finger at Aysha and slavered, ‘You get back to work and stay there,’ with spittle coming out of his mouth.

He flung his briefcase over the serving counter, shouting, ‘Look after that,’ to staff and, leaping over the table he’d upended, he gave chase, chunnering the word ‘Bastard!’ between his teeth as he flung open the door and skidded comically out on to Old Brompton Road, seeing Khan running in the direction he’d come from, towards the tube station.

Seething, Henry clenched his jaw and set off, attracting worried looks from all other pedestrians. He got going like a lumbering steam train, arms pounding like engine cylinders, glad of the time he’d spent in Special Projects because one of his own special projects had been to get fit again and being dumped in headquarters had given him that chance by way of extended lunchtimes and three-mile daily runs. In fact, he didn’t consider himself a steam train. By dropping more than a stone in weight, he’d become a whippet, all six-two and thirteen stones of him.

Unfortunately, Khan also looked like he could run. He was small and wiry and had no trouble skipping round people, but his lack of experience in running away from the police showed. Anyone who had experience of having to outrun the fuzz would have known to cross the road and dive into the busy area outside Earl’s Court, using the cover provided by others. Instead he chose to do a left into Brompton Cemetery through the north gate and run down the central avenue of the huge, almost deserted cemetery in the direction of the chapel at the far end.

Henry powered after him, also aware that most doctors don’t practise what they preach: health and fitness. At least, Henry’s own whisky-swilling GP didn’t.

Khan began to flag after another hundred metres. Henry started to gain, although he was tiring and regretting his overindulgence at breakfast.

But Khan had nowhere to go. He eventually sagged down on to his knees, as though his batteries were running out, then slumped on to all fours and puked.

Henry skittered up behind him in the gravel, panting, ‘You …are … under … arrest … onsuspicionofmurder.’ He emitted the last four words as one.

Even though the complication of Henry being a detective from Lancashire operating without the knowledge or blessing of the locals was quickly dealt with, his prisoner was not. After pinning Khan down and dragging him back to the north gate, Henry had called 999 on his mobile and waited patiently for the promised response, which took about twenty minutes.

The circumstances took another ten minutes to explain to the two PCs who arrived in a Transit van and then conveyed him to the police station on Fulham Road, via Starbucks where he collected his briefcase and made his apologies. Unsurprisingly, Aysha had disappeared.

Booking the prisoner in took an interminable length of time.

Southwest London must have had a busy morning. Henry was told he had to remain with his prisoner until the booking-in was done. He wasn’t required to remain physically by the side of Khan, but was instructed to stay in the custody area. Khan was put into a holding cage with six other prisoners who all looked like serious armed robbers.

Henry paced the cell corridor, straightening his thoughts, wondering what the best course of action would be.

As ever, he decided to wing it.

‘DCI Henry Christie, Lancashire Constabulary,’ he introduced himself to the Met custody sergeant. He pushed Khan up to the desk, caused the sergeant to look at him, then at Henry, then back to Khan.

‘Hello, Dr Khan.’

Khan nodded miserably.

‘Do you know this person,’ the sergeant said to Henry, ‘is one of our police surgeons?’

Henry gave him a pained look. ‘How would I know that?’

‘You wouldn’t.’ He smiled thinly at Henry. ‘What’s this about?’

‘I’ve arrested him on suspicion of murder.’

Once again the sergeant glanced from one person to the other. ‘Murder?’ he said in disbelief.

‘Murder,’ Henry confirmed.

‘Which murder?’

‘That of a woman called Sabera Ismat, whose body was found in Lancashire about six months ago. I was the SIO,’ he concluded.

‘Do you have anything to say, Dr Khan?’

Khan shook his head, but he was clearly affected by what Henry had just said. The sergeant again gave Henry a stare which said it all, and with a heavy sigh began the process of detaining Khan under the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, not impressed.

It was four miserable hours before a duty solicitor became free and the time was approaching 3 p.m. Henry had expected to be on his way back to Lancashire by now.

His newly formulated plan was to have a quick interview with Khan and then arrange for him to be transported up north where he could be dealt with properly.

They were in a grotty interview room with peeling paint on the walls and a strange smell of sewers. Henry had the tape on and had cautioned Khan.

‘I’m investigating the murder of Sabera Ismat whose body was found six months ago in a field in Lancashire,’ he began. It was the first time Henry had actually been face to face with Khan properly. He was a good-looking Asian man around about the thirty mark. As he spoke the words, the colour of Khan’s skin faded to a grey. He looked as though he was about to say something, but nothing came out.

‘You knew her, didn’t you?’

‘That doesn’t make my client a murderer,’ the weasley-faced brief interjected. ‘I already have the feeling that this is a purely speculative arrest.’

Henry ignored him. ‘Please answer the question. Did you know her?’

‘I knew her. She used to be a locum for the practice.’

‘How well did you know her?’

Khan rubbed his head. ‘Not that well.’

‘How well would you say on a scale of one to ten?’

Khan thought. ‘Four, maybe.’

Henry gave him a withering look.

‘I’d met her back in med school, but then I didn’t see her again until a few months ago when she came asking about a job.’

‘Which you got her?’

‘I did.’

‘Without even a formal interview.’

Khan’s face turned stonily towards Henry. ‘It was based on her references, qualifications and my personal knowledge.’

‘Yet you say you didn’t know her that well?’ Henry paused. He liked waiting. It made people feel uncomfortable and often they had the urge to fill in the gaps. If used well, silence could be a deadly trap, a void into which the unwitting could tumble. Khan, though, just looked down at his hands as his fingers intertwined in anguish. His chin shook.

‘Where are her employment records?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, they seem to have disappeared from the filing cabinet in which all the health centre employment records are kept.’

‘No idea.’ His eyes closed and opened slowly as he said the two words.

‘How come you haven’t asked me more about the fate of one of your employees? Someone you knew from university, someone you gave a job to, someone who then suddenly disappeared? Aren’t you curious about what happened to her? Or is it that you already know?’ Henry was still aware that he did not have a hundred per cent proof that the dead woman was Sabera Ismat and that Khan could feasibly tell him where she was, alive and kicking … although his marked reluctance to say anything convinced Henry he was on the right track.

The woman in the photos was Sabera Ismat and Dr Khan, renowned police surgeon, damn well knew something about her.

And yet, there was something about this man that made Henry doubt he could have killed her … but he’d been wrong about killers before. Everyone — everyone — was capable.

Khan remained silent. He was sweating and Henry almost believed he could hear the man’s heart beating against his rib cage.

‘Dr Khan, you have a lot of questions to answer. I’m going to arrange for you to be conveyed to Lancashire for further questioning. You are a very good suspect for her murder. You knew her, you employed her, and I’ll prove you pulled her records when she mysteriously disappeared. And while I’m waiting for transport from Lancashire, I’ll be going to arrest your receptionist too. She can have a trip up north, because you’re obviously both in this together-’

‘No!’ Khan erupted. ‘Neither of us hardly knew her! Aysha …’ His voice tapered out.

Henry reached down for his briefcase at his feet under the interview table. He laid it on his lap, opened it and pulled out two sheets of paper, which he positioned face down in front of Khan.

‘For the benefit of the tape I am showing Dr Khan two photographs. The first shows him sitting at a restaurant with the victim, Sabera Ismat.’ Henry slowly turned the photograph over and slid it across to Khan so it was right under his nose. Henry’s eyes remained firmly fixed on Khan’s reactions. ‘The second is a photograph of Khan embracing the victim, as though they were lovers.’ He did the same with this one, the photograph taken of Khan and Sabera holding each other on a bridge. Khan’s face was a picture to behold. ‘So, Dr Khan, just run that past me again, will you? How well do you know Sabera Ismat?’

The next problem was arranging transport from Lancashire to come down to London and pick up the prisoner. Not the easiest thing to arrange because it meant two uniformed bobbies coming down from Blackpool, as that was the division in which the body was discovered, who had to be released from other duties to tear down south.

Henry wrestled with it, working it all through his head; how long it would take to get them down to London, how long back, how it would all impact on the time factor in relation to the prisoner. He was sitting in the police surgeon’s room, weighing up the factors, hand on the phone, when the custody sergeant came in.

‘Guv,’ he said, ‘Dr Khan wants to see you. Says he’s got something to tell you.’

Henry jumped up and hurried through to an interview room to await the arrival of Khan and his solicitor. He was surprised when only Khan was escorted through by a gaoler. He sat down opposite Henry, clearly crushed and worried.

‘Where’s your brief?’

‘Sacked him.’

‘Is that wise?’

‘I don’t think he was very wise.’

‘What do you want to tell me?’ Henry unwrapped a double-pack of cassette tapes and dropped them into the machine.

Khan took a deep, unsteady breath.