Critical Threat

Twelve

Not even 125 mph was fast enough for Henry Christie. As the early morning Virgin Express Pendolino service left the environs of London and scythed north-west towards Rugby, even his full English breakfast, as good as it was, hardly tickled his taste buds. Once again he read through the twelve-page statement he had painstakingly extracted from Dr Sanjay Khan, the man he had suspected of murdering Sabera Ismat — or, as Khan had corrected him, Sabera Rashid.

On the previous evening Henry had listened with fascination, and then with a chilled heart, as Khan spilled the truth and recounted the story of a beautiful young woman whose hopes of freedom and a decent life had been cruelly terminated.

It took him half an hour to haltingly tell the tale the first time round, after which Henry took him from the suspect interview room and found a more comfortable room in the police station in which he could get Khan to relax and expand on everything whilst Henry recorded the statement on paper.

It was clear that Khan was a man who, underneath his veneer of being a normal GP and police surgeon on the side, lived in fear. He looked desolate, afraid.

‘Yes, we fell in love,’ he said painfully, tears welling in his eyes. ‘It was wrong, but it was also very, very right.’

Henry made a guggling sound to encourage him.

‘All she wanted was freedom, the right to be her own person, to follow her vocation, but that was denied her by a tyrant of a husband who beat and raped her most horribly … we met at university and we were just good friends, though there was a spark.’ He looked desperately at Henry. ‘We knew she would return to get married and that was accepted between us, so nothing happened in those days …’ His story was all over the place at first, but Henry allowed him his ramble before putting structure to it. ‘Then she came back to me out of the blue … I’d never married … and she told me she had left her husband and wanted a new life. God, it was so hard for her … so much pressure on her from inside and outside, but she knew that when she had made that step, returning was out of the question … those photographs you showed me … taken by a private investigator?’

‘I think so.’

‘So she was tracked down, got careless I suppose. Her husband had that sort of money, though. He is quite wealthy, I believe.’ Khan paused. ‘That night, the night of the photographs, was the last night I ever saw her …’

Henry was running these words through his mind when the train began to slow down, then stop … in the middle of nowhere. South of Milton Keynes, he guessed. The regretful announcement was that there would be a short delay whilst a broken down train ahead of them was removed from the lines. Henry cursed, but smiled when the pretty stewardess appeared by his side offering more coffee. There was nothing he could do about any delays. Not as though he could get out and kick the wheels, call the AA or remonstrate with anyone. If a train ain’t going nowhere, it ain’t going nowhere. He held up his cup. The coffee was good.

Dressed in jeans, trainers and leather jacket, he relaxed in the business-class seat. He was at an individual table so he stretched out and thought back to the evening.

‘What happened that night?’ he had asked Khan.

Khan snorted, shaking his head sadly. ‘She had been in London for about six months. She was working hard, doing well, and we were falling in love slowly, at arm’s length, yeah? To leave her husband was one thing for a Muslim girl; to start seeing another man whilst still married, that’s a whole new ball game. Very big stuff for a Muslim female. Monumental, in fact. But it started to happen and the irony was that it happened on that night of all nights.’

‘Meaning?’

Khan sat back, remembering. ‘Romantic meal, romantic stroll across the river, back to my flat where’ — he hesitated with an embarrassed cough — ‘we made love.’

Henry nodded, feeling very sorry for this man. Not that he was going to let him off the hook, though. He’d been spun many a lying sob story by murderers trying to get sympathy and walk free. ‘And after that, you never saw her again?’

Khan nodded.

‘Meaning you killed her? Isn’t that right?’

‘No! Never!’ he protested.

Henry gave him a look of disbelief. ‘Keep talking.’

‘She stayed the night at my flat … and at about four in the morning, something like that, the door was kicked in-’ He stopped abruptly at that point and dropped his head into his hands, beginning to sob. Henry let him get it out of his system.

Finally, when it looked as though he had finished his snivelling, Henry said, ‘The husband?’

‘Him and three other guys. They came in hard and fast and I didn’t do a damn thing to protect her. They put tape over her face, tied her up and rolled her into my duvet and carried her out. And I just watched. I was shitting myself.’

‘You just watched?’

‘Yeah — with one guy holding a knife to my throat.’ He raised his chin and pointed to a small, silvery scar by his windpipe.

‘Ahh,’ said Henry, understanding.

‘Then I was warned off, I guess by Sabera’s husband, although he didn’t introduce himself.’

‘That was it? They warned you off?’ Henry said incredulously.

‘They beat me with canes, just on my body and legs, so no one could see.’

‘Any marks to prove this?’

‘They’re still there.’

Henry sat back. ‘I’m still not sure whether I believe you.’

‘It’s the truth.’

‘When did you next hear from her?’

‘Never.’

‘Did you try to contact her?’

‘I didn’t dare … I was under threat.’

‘Didn’t you wonder what had happened to her? I mean, it all seems a bit thin to me.’

Khan suddenly stood up, knocking his chair over backwards, and leaned on the table, looking down at Henry with something burning in his eyes. ‘I have lived a nightmare every day, Mr Christie.’ His jaw rotated as he spoke. ‘I have not slept a full night’s sleep for six months. I am screwed up with guilt and shame, but at the same time I made myself believe Sabera was OK. Not happy, but OK. Alive and back living the miserable existence she had tried to flee.’ He stood up and stalked across the room, pacing. ‘I am torn up I did nothing on that night, nor have I done anything since because I prove to myself every single day that I am a coward. The fear of her husband has kept me from doing what anyone who’s half a man should have done … but my fear is real, not imaginary.’

With that, he turned to Henry and tore off his shirt.

The train began to move at last.

It was 8 a.m. and Henry had been on the tracks for an hour and a quarter. He should have been much further than this.

He visualized Khan’s back, bearing injuries which were tantamount to torture. He had been beaten like a prisoner in a concentration camp and the marks were still there, alive and glowing like living things.

‘I give myself strong painkillers just to get through the day.’ He pulled the shirt back on and sat down, slowly buttoning it up, not looking at Henry now, a faraway something in his eyes. ‘Don’t think I didn’t want to call the police, I did,’ he said defensively.

‘Didn’t you think it odd that she didn’t try to contact you in any way?’ Henry had been shocked by Khan’s injuries, but not so much that he was going to be deflected from getting to the truth. It could all still have been a big lie.

‘Not really. She would’ve been kept like a prisoner, everything taken away from her, maybe even guarded.’

‘Let me get this straight: she was dragged away in the middle of the night, you were beaten senseless and you thought she’d still be OK? Call me a cynic, but …’ Henry shrugged and gestured with his hands as his voice trailed off, lost for words.

‘As I said, I was under threat.’

‘And the threat was?’

‘Death.’

‘Carry on … convince me.’

‘I was told that any attempt by me to contact her, or to tell the police, would result in my death … and I believed that.’

‘And if you’d phoned the police on the night she was kidnapped, she might still be alive now.’ Henry sighed, looking at him with undisguised disgust.

The train moved a good quarter of a mile. Then stopped. Henry gazed out at the countryside, sipping his fourth coffee of the morning and wondering when the caffeine overdose would kick in. He had watched Khan from across the table with little sympathy as the doctor cried uncontrollably. He let him cry himself out, not interrupting, just letting him outpour his grief and personal shame. The photographs Eddie Daley had taken were on the table between them, almost taunting Khan. In them Henry saw a couple very much in love.

Then he started to imagine what sort of life they would have had.

It would have been hard to the point of impossible, Henry thought. The husband would have always been there, his spectre always at their shoulders.

‘Where does the receptionist, Aysha, fit into all this?’ Henry inquired, looking at the photo with her in the background.

‘She became a friend to Sabera. I introduced them and Aysha took her in. She’s the only one who knew about me and Sabera, and the only one who knew what happened that night.’

Henry had reached the stage where he believed Khan and needed to get a statement down.

Khan raised his bloodshot eyes. ‘Mr Christie? How did she die?’

‘I’m not sure you really want to know that.’

‘Oh yes, I do.’

Against his better judgement, Henry told him, but not in gory detail. Even so, it had the effect of destroying Khan and as Henry took the statement he guessed that the doctor would be in for a worse time emotionally than he was already experiencing.

When Henry had finished taking the statement, he then released Khan on police bail — Henry wanted to keep some hold on him — to return to the police station in two weeks’ time.

‘What happens now?’ Khan asked as Henry led him to the custody office door.

‘The investigation continues. I’ll let you know what you need to know.’

‘Thank you — and sorry for hitting you and running away. It’s something I’ve been doing for six months and I’m glad you caught up with me, in a strange sort of way.’

Henry shrugged. ‘Whatever.’

‘There is one more thing. Could I have a copy of the photographs?’ It sounded a helpless request. ‘It was a tragic night, but before the tragedy it was magical. I’d like to hold on to that.’

Henry handed them over and Khan looked at them with dewy eyes. ‘That necklace was the first thing, the only thing, I ever gave her,’ he said, pointing at the close-up of Sabera’s face and neck. ‘I bought it when I was in India a few weeks before. That night seemed the right night to give it to her.’

At 11.15 p.m., the worn-out Lancashire detective had jumped into a cab and headed back to the Jolly St Ermin, where he had left his luggage and where he hoped to be able to get another room for the night. He was fortunate and after a bar snack and two pints of Stella, followed by a quick call to Kate, he had hit the bed and crashed out.

… And the Virgin Express started to move and tear through the countryside again.

‘Thank fuck for that,’ Henry breathed and held out a dithering hand with an empty cup and almost pleaded for another shot of coffee from the stewardess.

He took out his note pad and jotted a few things down to collect his thoughts.

Sabera Ismat? Rashid — abducted/murdered

Eddie Daley — shot thru head/ murdered

Sanjay Khan — lover boy

Mansur Rashid — husband/killer — Eddie’s killer? Eddie’s employer?

Sabera’s family — accomplices? Knowledge

Honour killing — as per PM

Is Eddie’s death connected to Sabera?

Darren Langmead amp; Johnny Strongitharm? Class Act?

Is Eddie’s death linked to them, not Rashid?

Connection?

Coincidence? Don’t like ’em

He read through what he’d written several times, trying to get a handle on it all, scratching his head.

Eddie Daley traced people. It was a big part of his job, probably something he was very good at. Sabera had done a runner from her husband and it looked as though the red-faced Mr Rashid had hired Eddie to find her.

So good, so far.

Eddie did the job.

But how far did it go? Did Eddie play a part in Sabera’s abduction that night? Henry doubted it. Not his scene. He was more likely to be the one who guided the husband in once he’d located her, a bit like an army recon squad. Henry knew that Eddie was not great at the physical stuff. He packed a good punch, but that was as far as it went. Henry had no reason to believe things had changed, especially when he recalled Eddie’s massively overweight corpse on the mortuary slab. Not the sort of physique associated with bursting into a house and kidnapping someone. Once he’d pointed out where Sabera could be found, Eddie would back off.

Milton Keynes whooshed by.

Then there was the Langmead/ Strongitharm case Eddie was working on. This was the one Jackie believed to be the key — hence her tragic confrontation with Langmead. Henry pinched the bridge of his nose, then smiled as his mind span off at a tangent: maybe he could get a trip to Spain out of this? A jolly to visit Johnny Strongitharm on the Costa del whatever?

Not a chance in hell, he thought, and returned to his notes.

The word ‘coincidence’ jumped out at him.

The night of Eddie’s murder.

Was it a coincidence that it occurred on the same night as the Crimewatch appeal? The appeal in which — and it stuck in Henry’s craw a little — Dave Anger had revealed some top-class information which could lead to a positive ID of the unidentified murder victim?

The facial reconstruction

The geological origin of the deceased

The necklace

Had Eddie Daley put all these things together? From everything that Daley would have known about the deceased, he could easily have added up the sums and worked out that the woman he had located was now dead and that there could easily have been something monetarily in it for him.

Henry knew that whilst Eddie wasn’t good at the physical side of things, he didn’t hesitate to put the squeeze on people. Had he leaned on Mansur Rashid? Was that why he had hurriedly left Jackie Kippax alone that night? To call on his ex-client and say, ‘Remember me?’ And was that why he was killed? He’d chosen the wrong person to lean on. Which, Henry thought back to a conversation he’d had with Jackie Kippax, would explain why Eddie had made the international sign for cash — rubbing his finger and thumb together — when he left her that night, just as the news was starting — just after Crimewatch had ended. And if Rashid knew that Eddie had used his computer to assist the search for his missing wife, that would explain why it was missing from the office, together with Eddie’s mobile phone, which could well have revealed a number which could have linked him to Rashid.

Making Rashid a cold, calculating and very dangerous man to know.

A surge of excitement made Henry’s arse twitch and brought a smile to his face as he thought, When some great detectives have their epiphany, they get a moody, all-knowing look about them, a certain smugness. I, on the other hand, get a contraction of the arse. And therein lies the difference between a great detective and a jack like me — a ring piece.

His amusing contemplation was disturbed by the ringing of his mobile phone. He automatically checked his watch before answering: 8.30 a.m.

‘Henry, what the hell’s going on? This is the deputy chief constable here, by the way, in case you hadn’t worked it out!’

‘Morning ma’am,’ he almost genuflected. ‘I was about to call,’ he said truthfully, ‘but the signal on the train comes and goes.’

‘On the bloody train? What’re you doing on the train? You should’ve been back by now — last night in fact. Your staff are all waiting for you upstairs like a bunch of stuffed dummies … what’s going on? What’s happening?’

‘Didn’t get finished until late last night,’ he explained, ‘and I was going to ring on the way back. You beat me to it … and I did expect to be back in Preston by ten-ish, but the train’s delayed.’

The words seemed to pacify her. ‘Right,’ she said, climbing down from the walls, ‘any joy?’

‘A lot of joy, actually — a lot of things to tell you.’ Henry spent quite a few minutes doing exactly that.

‘Where do we go from here then?’ Angela asked. ‘Your team are bouncing. They need something to do.’

‘Well, we need to check out Mansur Rashid PDQ.’

‘Shouldn’t that be passed to Dave Anger?’

Henry made a long creaking noise down the phone. ‘I suppose he needs to be brought into the loop, but if we go at it from the angle of Eddie’s death, then we could get away with it — at least until Rashid has been questioned about his murder. Just a suggestion.’

‘I’ll buy that … and it’s not as though Dave will be wanting any distractions today, anyway.’

‘Why not … oh, Condoleezza Rice is in town today, isn’t she?’

‘Yeah, and just about the whole of the force is tied up doing security for the visit.’

‘In that case,’ Henry ruminated, checking his watch again and then seeing the signs for Rugby railway station whiz by, ‘why don’t you see if you can get Rashid’s address from somewhere — it’s one of the things I don’t have — and get, say, Graeme Walling and someone else from Special Projects to go and grab him? Lock him up on sus of killing Eddie Daley and he can be arrested later for Sabera’s murder …’

The line went dead as the train picked up speed, leaving Rugby behind, and plunged into a deep cutting, severing all links with the civilized world. Henry looked accusingly at the phone, seeing no signal bars on it.

He sat back and gave up on the phone, opened the Daily Express he’d bought on his dash through Euston and tried to do the Sudoku on the inner page, which quickly left him floundering.

As the train approached Crewe, its first scheduled stop of the journey, he received a text message: ‘Have found Rashid’s address in B/burn. Will arrest this morning. He’ll be waiting 4U when U get bak — so will I. Ang.’

An uneasy feeling made Henry reply: ‘Bcareful.’