Instinct

ELEVEN

After just two hours’ deep sleep, Henry stirred at six o’clock, detached himself from Alison’s grip — she rolled over with a disgusted grunt — and padded into the bathroom, picking up his discarded clothing on the way. He dressed, then left without disturbing her, his mind still zinging with confused thoughts about the relationship.

He needed to get home, shower, shave and change into fresh clothing, then get into the MIR before anyone else landed. This, he thought, as he climbed into the Mercedes, was going to be a long day.

He arrived home less than ten minutes later, the streets of Blackpool virtually traffic-free at that time of day. Karl Donaldson’s huge Jeep was parked on the driveway alongside Leanne’s Fiat 500. This car had belonged to Kate and Leanne had inherited it. Henry swallowed a fresh gulp of guilt at the sight of the Fiat, and just for a moment he wondered how the hell he was going to explain himself to Kate, arriving home at this time of day, bedraggled and with bloodshot eyes. Then he remembered. He shook his head, but the gulp stuck in his throat as he let himself quietly into the house.

He heard the running of a shower from the main bathroom. It was unlikely to be Leanne, so Henry knew it would be Donaldson up and ready to face the world again. The guy had boundless energy and no doubt had already been for a three mile run. Fit, good-looking bastard, Henry thought.

Lifting one heavy leg after the other up the stairs, Henry sidled into his bedroom like a naughty teenager sneaking home. Still feeling the guilt. He undressed, and when he heard the other shower stop, he got into the en suite shower, turned it on hot and stood for a very long time under the driving jets.

Twenty minutes later, fresh as a daisy, newly clothed and with everything trimmed, including nose and ear hair, Henry walked into the kitchen where Donaldson was pouring a mug of freshly filtered coffee. The toaster popped up as Henry entered. His friend gave him one of those knowing looks.

‘Say nothing,’ Henry warned him.

Donaldson’s eyebrows arched as he considered this, then he said, ‘You know I can’t do that, don’t you?’

Henry poured himself a coffee whilst Donaldson buttered the toast and dropped two more slices into the toaster. He hummed irritatingly, a cheeky grin on his face, then armed with food and drink made his way to the conservatory to eat.

Henry joined him a few minutes later, similarly equipped.

‘Work colleague?’ Donaldson probed. Henry remained mys-teriously silent. ‘Hooker?’ Still nothing. ‘Second cousin twice removed? We are, after all, in the backwoods here?’ Nothing. He squinted at Henry. ‘Can’t be a cougar — you’re the one who’s too old.’

Henry bristled, but oddly enjoyed the tease.

‘Supermodel?’ No response. ‘You know I’ll find out, I’m a superb FBI agent for God’s sake.’

‘Stop.’ Henry raised a piece of toast threateningly. ‘Stop right there. I’m pretty screwed up about it as it stands.’ This was an ironic thing for Henry to say. His history of extramarital relationships would have made most observers draw the conclusion that Henry hadn’t cared very much about Kate’s feelings when she had been alive, so now that she was gone, what did it matter? He just knew it did.

‘Who is she?’ This time Donaldson’s probe was gentle.

‘Alison Marsh.’

‘The barmaid?’ Donaldson said. He had met her at the same time as Henry in the blood-soaked village of Kendleton.

‘The landlady, to be more precise. The owner of a very nice country pub stroke hotel.’

‘And a woman with a dark secret.’ Donaldson made a pistol shape with his fingers.

‘Aye, maybe… whatever.’

‘But she is very nice. How… er?’

‘Call out of the blue.’

‘Could it be serious?’

‘Who the heck knows? I don’t think I’m handling it very well.’

‘It’s early days.’

‘That’s part of the problem, I reckon.’

‘What? Social niceties? Henry, this is me, your biggest pal.’ He leaned forwards with his toast. ‘Screw social niceties and let whatever is going to happen, happen. If it’s a fling, then so be it. Screw each other senseless. If it’s serious, well good for both of you. She deserves happiness and, what’s more important to me, so do you.’

Henry regarded him open-mouthed. ‘I thought you were an FBI agent, not a relationship counsellor.’

‘I can turn my hand to most things… except DIY, much to Karen’s annoyance.’

‘OK, bud, thanks for the ass-kicking.’ Henry bit into his toast, then with his mouth full said, ‘I’ve something that might interest you.’

‘This is a legitimate question,’ Henry said to Mark Carter. ‘Are you just pissing us about, or what?’

Mark looked affronted — and angry. ‘I’m telling you the truth, man.’

‘Start talking, then.’

The interview was monitored by Rik and Donaldson via an audio/video feed into the DI’s office. The picture on the monitor wasn’t brilliant but the speech was clear enough, and when Henry drew the interview to a close, the two men leaned back, looked at each other, but said nothing as they watched Henry and Mark vacate the interview room down in the custody office.

Rik poured Donaldson a coffee, one for himself and one for Henry, who was expected a few minutes later when he’d re-bailed Mark.

Although Henry hadn’t arrested Mark this time, he wanted to re-bail him, so he led the lad back to the custody office, only to find a man arrested on a warrant was being booked in, so they had to wait.

He and Mark stood patiently at the back of the room, waiting for the custody desk to clear. Henry had a few papers rolled up in his hand, and was tapping his chin thoughtfully when Mark said, ‘Are those the photos of the guys?’ Henry nodded. ‘Can I have a look again?’

Mark had already seen the photographs of Sadiq and Rahman and confirmed they were students attending the same college that he did and that he’d seen them talking to Natalie in a more than friendly way. That was the basis of what he’d told Henry — that he knew the two Asian lads by sight, not personally, and that Natalie knocked around with them in the dining rooms and common room. And that it had got him mad.

Henry handed the photos over absent-mindedly. He was busy rolling this new information through his mind, wondering if it was important or just juvenile tittle-tattle. Mark opened the sheets and looked at them and said, ‘Yeah, these are the guys. Geeks, I’d’ve said.’ Then he said, ‘Who’s this guy?’

‘Who?’ Henry looked and realized he had inadvertently handed Mark a photograph of Jamil Akram which was also in his file. Mark was studying the photograph intently. It wasn’t a good one, a bit grainy and blurred, a surveillance photograph that could have been taken on the other side of the world.

‘This one.’

‘Why?’ When Mark hesitated, Henry sensed he was backtracking then. ‘Why?’ Henry said forcefully.

‘I… er… saw Sadiq and Rahman and Natalie with this guy.’

Henry dragged him by the collar straight back into the interview room they’d just vacated.

‘Speak.’

‘Uh, remember I said me and Natalie did it on her mum’s rug?’

‘How could I forget — I’m constantly trying to purge my mind of the image.’

‘Well, it was for old time’s sake. But I was still mad and I wanted to know what she was up to…’

‘So?’

‘I hid and waited, and then followed her when she went out. She got a bus and I followed her into town, then she got another bus up to North Shore.’

‘How did you follow her?’

‘On my bike. Pretty easy. Buses don’t go that fast. Anyway, she got off at North Shore, so I dumped my bike in a backyard and legged after her on foot, and next thing she’s walking up to a flat, when the two geeks come out and there’s a load of kissing and huggin’ and stuff. Fuck, I thought they didn’t do things like that in public. Y’know — Asians.’

Henry rolled his eyes. ‘Where was this?’ Henry mentioned the name of a road and Mark confirmed it. ‘Then what happened?’

‘Then that other guy, the older one, came out of the flat and the geeks introduced her to him.’

‘And you saw all this?’

‘Uh-huh. I was hid behind a wall. I’d got pretty good at stalking her.’

‘Then what?’

‘She went back into the flat with Rahman and the bloke, and Sadiq set off walking in my direction. I just slid off then. Bet they were all fucking her,’ Mark snorted.

‘And you’re certain this was the man?’ Henry held up Akram’s photograph.

Mark nodded. ‘Who is he?’

‘A very bad man.’

Henry’s coffee had gone cold. He looked at Donaldson and Rik Dean, who themselves were looking pretty stunned. They had watched the whole thing on the AV feed.

‘Well?’ Henry said.

‘Pure gold,’ Donaldson said.

‘I’ve never been impressed with him,’ Rik said. ‘He’s a little shit and could be lying to save his own backside. He only knows Sadiq and Rahman because they went to the same college as him.’

‘You really are a cynic,’ Henry said.

‘You mean you’re not?’ Rik exclaimed. ‘You must be going soft in your dotage.’

Henry grinned. ‘Whatever… that said, we now need to interview Sadiq down in London. I promise I won’t lose sight of the fact that Mark’s sperm was inside Natalie… but I know he wasn’t her killer.’

‘I think he’s clean,’ Donaldson said.

‘And I suspect everyone,’ Rik said.

‘You remind me so much of a younger me,’ Henry said.

‘Ugh!’

‘Where do we go from here, then?’ Donaldson said. ‘I only ask, because if you can get to interview Sadiq, I’d like to sneak in on the back of it, particularly after this little revelation.’

Henry pouted. ‘It’s unlikely they would allow you into Paddington Green even if they let me in, especially if they’ve already blocked you.’

‘Maybe we could get him back up here?’ Rik suggested. ‘That’s what we’d do normally.’

Henry pondered for a moment, then said brightly, ‘I know — let’s go and annoy the chief constable.’

For a brief second he took stock of himself and found he was unaccountably happy. He was having an interesting time at work, his personal life was also… interesting. Actually, both areas were quite fun and he thought he might just delete his ‘Intention to Retire’ report. And the prospect of winding up FB was also highly appealing.

Three quarters of an hour later Henry entered the office on the middle floor of the headquarters building at Hutton that housed the staff officers and admin team for the chief constable and the deputy chief constable. The room acted as a firewall and had to be negotiated like a level in a video game if one wanted to get in front of the chief or the dep. Their offices — inner sanctums — were accessed from here, a door at either side of the room; to the left, the chief, to the right, the dep.

The chief’s staff officer had changed recently. The role had been taken by a female chief inspector that Henry knew quite well, but from whom he did not expect any quarter. She glanced up from her computer as he breezed in and plonked himself down next to her on the chair positioned at the end of her desk.

‘Morning, Henry,’ she smiled.

‘Deb,’ Henry said, returning with one of his best lopsided boyish smiles, designed to soften the heart of any woman. At least that was what he hoped. ‘How are you? Settling into the job?’ She had only been in post a couple of months.

‘Fits like a glove.’

‘Pity about the boss?’ he said. She smiled.

‘What can I do for you?’

‘Need to see him.’

She shook her head. ‘Zero chance.’

‘It’s very important.’

‘The dep might be free — in about three days.’

‘Has to be the chief.’

She leaned her chin on her hand and studied him. ‘Which bit of “no” don’t you understand? I can make an appointment, but it’ll be next week now.’

‘He is in, though?’ Henry jerked his head at FB’s thick office door.

‘All the divisional commanders are in with him, the finance director and the head of HR. Apparently the government has decided to cut our budget by twenty percent and they’re brainstorming how. Long, long session.’

‘I can feel the brain heat emanating from the room.’ Henry held out his hands, palms out, as if he was warming them on a coal fire. ‘All those dendrites zapping across their grey matter.’

The chief inspector laughed. ‘I can’t interrupt, Henry. I’m sorry. They’re hunkered down for the day, lunch and everything.’

Henry’s mouth curled thoughtfully. ‘Shove a piece of paper under his nose for me?’

Henry had abandoned Rik and Donaldson in the ground floor dining room. He walked back to them with a shrug and sat down.

‘He’s busy, but I’ve left a message.’

Henry had his back to the door, so he was facing out with a view of the headquarters social club, known colloquially as ‘The Grovellers’ Arms’. The eyes of the two men with him looked back past him as FB entered the room, waving a piece of paper in his hand with irritation.

‘Brief me. You’ve got five minutes, then I’m going back to that meeting where, I’m sure, my brain’s going to implode.’

FB took the spare seat at the table, big, rotund, mustachioed, like Buddha’s fifth cousin twice removed but much more wrinkly. He and Henry had known each other many years and their relationship was complex. FB had used Henry on many an occasion, mainly for his own ends, and there was no love lost between them. However, when things went to the wire FB had actually backed up Henry, which is what Henry was hoping for this time. But he wasn’t banking on it.

Henry explained everything succinctly, as instructed. FB hated superfluous detail. The chief looked suspiciously at Donaldson, then back to Henry.

‘You need to speak to the lad in custody because you have information linking him to a murder victim. Fair enough, and it should be possible to achieve. But why the Yank?’ He thumbed at Donaldson.

‘He could do with speaking to the lad, too,’ Henry said, making FB snort derisively.

‘But not about the murder of a girl in Lancashire?’ FB said.

‘No.’

‘I’d guess it would be about Jamil Akram,’ FB said. He looked at Donaldson again. ‘They’re freezing you out, aren’t they?’

Donaldson nodded. ‘I don’t think the security services have grasped the implications of Akram turning up on the scene. And now with Mark Carter’s identification, we have him clearly linked to Sadiq and Rahman, if he wasn’t before.’

FB snorted again. ‘Think you’re wrong there, pal. They know it all and that’s why they want to be the ones trying to squeeze every last drop of information out of that poor misguided youth.’

Donaldson’s face fell. It was something he had suspected, but having it confirmed by a third party was like being hit by a truck.

Then Henry said, ‘They want Akram for themselves.’

Donaldson’s body slumped.

‘Yep,’ FB sighed. ‘You’ll not get a look in.’

‘I know more about Akram than any of them,’ Donaldson whined weakly. ‘I’ve been after him for over ten years. Sadiq might know something extra that I can slot into the other pieces of my jigsaw. Something that will lead to his front door.’

‘They won’t let you talk to him. You might not get to him either,’ FB said to Henry.

Henry’s voice was indignant. ‘I have every right.’ He knew instantly he sounded like a probationer constable who only saw the world in black and white, right and wrong, not a grizzled old-timer who knew the world was as murky and grey as 1950s’ London smog. ‘Sorry,’ he said, as all eyes turned to him.

FB went into deep thought, eyes a squint. ‘How quickly can you get the DNA profiles done on the outstanding sperm samples?’ he asked Henry.

‘I managed to get Mark Carter’s fast-tracked through a personal contact. I doubt I can repeat that.’

‘Try,’ FB said. Then his attention turned to Donaldson. FB’s mind was also grinding hard on the subject. FB had been a career detective, rising up through the ranks in plain clothes, so he thought like one still. ‘It would be helpful if the DNA profile from the blood on the plane could be fast-tracked, too, don’t you think? I know…’ he said, before Donaldson had the chance to point out that this was completely out of his hands because the sample had actually been taken by a Merseyside CSI and had been submitted through that force’s channels. He leaned forwards. ‘Can I just give you my line of thinking? We need power to our elbows if we’re to have any chance of getting to interview Sadiq. First off, all the DNA samples taken from her body have to be profiled and ready for comparison. Four profiles, four comparisons. Mark Carter’s is done, that leaves three — so what if the three belong to Sadiq, Rahman and Akram? What if all three of those guys had sex with her?’

Henry, Rik and Donaldson exchanged excited glances.

‘The first thing we need to do is get Sadiq’s and Rahman’s DNA analysed.’

‘We still have Rahman’s body in the mortuary,’ Henry said. ‘And his DNA would have been taken as a matter of course.’

‘But he’s dead — and you can’t speak to him,’ FB said. ‘But, yes, his DNA needs cross-checking with the samples. Then, if we get Sadiq’s DNA analysed… if that comes back positive, then there’s no way we should have any problems in getting to see Sadiq. And-’

Donaldson intercut, ‘If Akram’s DNA matches one of the samples from Natalie’s body, then we’re whoopin’.’

‘That’s only if these things match up… but if they do, then perhaps you can shoehorn yourself into Henry’s slipstream.’

‘I also think we need to have another look at Sadiq’s flat,’ Henry said. ‘If Natalie was seeing the two lads as Mark suggests, it might be possible to find something in the property that relates to her. That’ll help our cause, too.’

‘Mm,’ FB said dubiously. ‘You might be too late on that score. That place is being gutted, packed and then sent off for detailed examination by MI5 and CT as we speak. You’ll need to move quickly, otherwise it’ll all go, then you’ll have no chance.’

‘Shit,’ Henry said.

‘Anything else I can solve for you?’ FB asked. ‘I need to get back to my budget meeting. We’re just discussing FMIT, actually. Need to cut that budget by thirty percent.’

‘What budget would that be?’ Henry said. The Force Major Investigation Team operated on a minuscule budget, the money to run long inquiries coming from other sources as necessary, not from the FMIT pot.

‘We’re wondering whether four superintendents isn’t a bit OTT,’ FB said. ‘Two could probably be enough, so we could easily lose two of you… and as two of you could retire if pushed… just a thought.’

Henry’s guts churned. Maybe quitting the job wouldn’t be down to him after all.

‘Anyway,’ he muttered, ‘thanks for your input, sir. Very valuable.’

‘Happy to help. Once a jack and all that. Actually, I’m happy to help anyone, even the security services, but I was, and still am, miffed by the fact that they seemed willing to put my officers into danger without briefing them properly.’ His eyes turned to Donaldson. ‘You know what I mean.’

‘Yes sir,’ Donaldson said.

FB nodded then revolved away towards the door.

There was silence at the table.

Then Henry said, ‘As it appears I have nothing to lose, I’m going to hijack any evidence from that flat and get a tame scientist to look for any traces of Natalie.’

Flynn had fished all the time that Boone had been away. Mainly from the beaches south of Banjul, on safari from early each morning to evening, using Boone’s beat up Land Cruiser for transport. It had been a wonderful time. Being alone throughout the days was quite therapeutic.

After the fishing he returned to Faye2 and following a long shower, shave and cold beer, made his way to Boone’s houseboat to be cooked for by Michelle. It was worth watching her glide about the place in her loose flowing African dresses; sometimes the breeze blowing the fine fabric taut against her breasts or between her legs made it obvious that she wore nothing of note underneath and had shaved everything. She seemed oblivious to Flynn’s sneaky peeks, but as each evening progressed and she drank a little wine, inhaled good quality weed, she became more flirty with him.

But that was as far as it went. From their conversations — deep and meaningful — Michelle seemed to have an almost spiritual insight into Flynn’s soul, but not so much as to make him feel uncomfortable. It was obvious she was completely sold on Boone, and Flynn had no wish to spoil that. He was slightly envious, though, because he, Flynn, had no one. An ex-wife, a son he hardly ever saw and a woman he had loved who was now dead. That was his emotional footprint. He was seeing someone in Gran Canaria, but it was a relationship based on animal lust and he knew it was going nowhere. In the years following his divorce and his exit from the cops, he thought he would never want anyone to need him ever again, and vice versa. But as he aged — he was only a few years short of fifty now — he knew he wanted to spend his life with someone else, but that person eluded him.

Michelle had been reassuring on that point.

‘Seek and you will never find. Just rest, relax, and the world will come to you,’ she predicted over beer and cannabis. ‘You are a good man, Steve Flynn. I can feel it here.’ She placed a hand on to her groin. Flynn gulped. Then she removed it and put her palm on to her chest. ‘And here.’

Flynn calmed down, but his hand was dithering slightly as he drew his beer to his lips and sipped.

They had eaten one of Michelle’s wonderful chicken dishes, hot, spicy, aromatic, when the short wave radio in the galley squawked and Flynn heard Boone’s voice calling.

Michelle dashed down to answer it whilst Flynn sat back in the comfortable wicker chair and let his food settle. He did not take heed of the conversation going on below deck and soon Michelle came back up, beaming happily. ‘Boone is less than an hour away.’

Flynn raised his beer. ‘I’ll drink to that.’ At that moment the evening breeze moulded Michelle’s dress against her body, leaving nothing to Flynn’s imagination. In his mind he said, ‘And I’ll drink to that, too.’

‘I’ll go and greet him.’ Flynn rose from the second game of chess he and Michelle had played in the intervening hour, knowing he was beaten soundly again.

‘OK. I’ll warm him up some food.’

Flynn stepped off the houseboat, and sauntered down the pathway that clung to the riverbank which led to the next creek where Faye2 was moored, and where Boone was easing Shell into her mooring alongside Flynn’s boat. Flynn would have hurried along and assisted Boone to tie up, but the sight of the big old black Mercedes already parked on the jetty, plus the two big black matching men leaning on the vehicle, arms folded as they watched Boone manoeuvre the boat expertly into position, made Flynn pull up sharp. He was sure he hadn’t been seen in the darkness, so he stepped sideways out of sight behind a couple of empty oil barrels stacked on one another.

One of the men caught Boone’s mooring rope as he tossed it across the gap. Moments later Shell was secure and Boone played out the gangplank across to the quayside.

A man got out of the back of the Mercedes and dashed across on to the boat and had a quick conversation with Boone, who then took him inside the cabin. Flynn ducked low, peering around the barrels at the scenario some fifty metres in front of him, which was illuminated by a couple of lamp posts that cast a white, eerie glow on the tableau.

Flynn saw that one of the men lounging against the car had a machine pistol held at an angle across his chest. The wry look on Flynn’s face said it all. What the hell had Boone got himself involved in now? Before he could answer, Boone reappeared on deck. Behind him was the man from the Mercedes supporting another man with a blanket over his shoulders. This was obviously the cargo that Boone had been to collect from God knew where. The man was apparently injured in some way and had to be propped up as he was led across the gangplank into the hands of one of the waiting men, before being placed in the back of the car. Flynn concentrated his vision on the man in the blanket and, just before his head ducked into the car, he got a one second look at his face.

A further mouth-to-ear conversation took place between Boone and the man from the car, then the latter slid into the rear of the vehicle and the other bodyguards — because that’s what Flynn pegged the men as being — climbed into the car, which then set off with a spurt of red dust. He kept out of view as the car spun around in a turning circle, then drove towards him along the narrow road that ran parallel to the quay.

It was a big, battered old Merc. Flynn knew there were plenty knocking around Banjul, either driven as taxis or by gangsters. He instinctively read and memorized the number plate, noted an unusual dent in the rear wing and that the back bumper was twisted out at one corner.

Flynn stood up slowly and strolled towards the boat, whistling tunelessly as though nothing had happened. And maybe it hadn’t, but Flynn was an ex-cop and still had a nose that sniffed out badness. And what he’d just witnessed stank rancid and rank.

Boone was reticent about the job. Flynn didn’t press him, it wasn’t his business. The guy was clearly exhausted by the journey and although he was ecstatic to see Michelle, and ravenously ate the meal she’d prepared for him, he was dead beat and crap company. He hauled himself off to bed within an hour of landing, leaving Michelle and Flynn alone on the deck of the houseboat.

They chatted until the early hours. Usual subjects. Love, life, food, religion… sex. At one thirty Flynn dragged himself up, complimented her on the food and her company, bowed like a gentlemen — having had a little too much to drink — kissed the back of her hand and left.

Twenty minutes later he bedded down on Faye2 in the air-conditioned chill of the stateroom and was deep asleep almost instantly, but not before looking forward to the next day’s fishing out on the estuary, his last day in the Gambia.