Instinct

EIGHT

At eleven p.m. that night, Henry Christie was in a bleak mood as he walked into his kitchen and went through each cupboard for the fourth time since arriving home. Once again, there was nothing in them, certainly nothing that appealed to him.

He still hadn’t changed, was still wearing the same clothes he’d been in since two thirty that morning when he’d been turned out to the murder of Natalie Philips. Many, many hours ago. A day which had seen him freeze at the scene of that murder (like a ‘numb twat’, he kept castigating himself), then get his act together, only to find himself on a wind-battered motorway dealing with a serious incident that had no connection whatsoever with the earlier murder.

He bent over to open the fridge door, then went light-headed as he stood upright again, stepping back a pace to keep his balance. He needed food. Behind the knife rack, the unofficial pending tray for letters delivered to his house, was also a menu for a local Chinese restaurant, one that he and Kate ordered takeouts from regularly. He hadn’t used it since she had died and unfolded it slowly whilst walking back into the lounge. He sat down and looked at the third-filled tumbler of Jack Daniel’s, still untouched, but tempting. He picked up the phone as he flicked through the menu and settled on his old favourite. Nothing fancy, just a chicken curry. They both liked the same and would order two, one with boiled rice, the other with chips and a bag of prawn crackers. They’d split the rice and chips and scoff the lot in front of the TV.

Henry looked around the lounge. It was deathly quiet. Leanne was out, so he was alone in the house. He could hear the wind outside. He looked through the menu again and decided to plump for something he’d never tried before, otherwise he’d just end up wallowing in the self-pity of what had once been. He placed the order by phone and was told it would be twenty minutes before it was ready. In that case, he thought, I’ll have a drive round in my new car.

As he opened the front door, Leanne was coming up the driveway with her boyfriend. She halted abruptly, surprised by Henry’s appearance. She and the man were obviously sneaking up to the house.

‘Dad! I thought you’d be in bed.’

‘Well I’m not.’ Henry’s cold eyes turned to the man. ‘What’s he doing here?’

‘We… we… uh, made up,’ Leanne stuttered.

‘This man has caused you endless grief,’ he said, his eyes still locked on to his prey. ‘And if you think he’s coming under my roof, you’re one off.’ He now moved his gaze to his daughter. ‘Your relationships aren’t my business, but I know a shitbag when I see one.’

‘Oi,’ the young man said warningly.

Henry’s head jerked back to him. ‘I’m not going to argue about it, but he isn’t coming in here — end of. I’m going for a takeout. I’ll be back very soon and he’d better not be here.’ Henry walked towards the pair, stopping shoulder to shoulder with the young man, who was fit and broad, but had no real scare factor about him. ‘And,’ Henry said, ‘no one “Oi’s” me at my house.’ He bustled past and got into his car, feeling a bit of a shitbag himself at his outburst. But also unrepentant. He didn’t like the guy and whilst Leanne was old enough to make her own mistakes, he still felt a certain parental responsibility towards her. It was odd, though, that she could not see what an out-and-out bastard the boyfriend was, yet he could. Why was life like that?

He reversed the Mercedes off the driveway and burned a bit of rubber to emphasize his disapproval. As he hit the roads of Blackpool, he exhaled, took a mental chill-pill and concluded that a ten minute tootle up the prom might give him chance for reflection on what had been, in Henry’s own words, ‘One hell of a fucking day.’

In complete contrast to the way in which his brain had imploded at the scene of Natalie Philips’s murder, Henry had remained clinical and professional on the motorway.

From the moment the young man from the Ford Fiesta had raised his right hand with the detonator in it, shouted words to his God that were scooped away in the wind, Henry had gone into Superintendent mode, shouting instructions to the firearms officers — which, incidentally, had not been heard by anyone else.

The AFO did everything that was expected of him in assessing the threat posed by the youth. That said, there was no time to shout a warning.

And even though the officer was only armed with the Glock self-loading pistol, and the distance between him and his target was at least ten metres — which is a long way to shoot a pistol accurately, even on a blustery motorway — his shooting was superb.

The two 9mm bullets he fired ripped the top portion from the lad’s skull and also destroyed his facial features.

Henry, although pirouetting away defensively, was still looking at the youth. He saw the lad’s face disintegrate as the bullets passed through and completely stopped all bodily function — which was the intent. It had to be an instantly fatal shot, otherwise there might have been a chance for the boy to either deliberately press the plunger — one last act of hatred — or to do so because of a twitch of the thumb. The latter chance still existed but was lessened by the complete and utter destruction of the brain.

It was technically brilliant shooting.

The lad jolted backwards as though yanked by a cable and landed on the carriageway between the Fiesta and the traffic car. His fist opened with a spasm and the detonator lay across his palm, looking for all the world like a ballpoint pen.

Then Henry took control — a calm, cool, efficient, effective presence. And he was pretty proud of himself.

Lots of things had to be concurrently and consecutively considered. A series of parallel and intercrossing thoughts tumbled through his head, like a four-lane Scalextric track with side by side racing, crossovers, chicanes, bridges and no excuses for collisions.

He had to secure and preserve the scene and save life. All traffic had to be stopped — properly this time, and from both directions. The motorway had to be closed immediately. The shooting officer had to be seated in his car, his gun seized. Extra resources had to be called in, such as more cops, the ambulance service, forensic and crime scene teams. Everyone had to be informed — but above all, Henry had to keep a firm grip, which he did, and focus on the task.

On autopilot he drove to the Chinese takeaway, a journey he’d made a hundred times or more over the years, and picked up the trial new dish. Spicy Ku Bo King Prawn, with boiled rice and an appetizer of Salt and Chilli spare ribs. The place was also licensed, so he added three large bottles of chilled Chinese beer. The aroma of the food filled his car and he became ravenous.

Then his mind wandered back to the day he’d just experienced.

He had had spent six bone-chilling hours on the motorway and as the day dragged on, even though the weather was good, it got colder and colder. Even as he was dealing with the shooting, he was also thinking about Natalie Philips and feeling guilty because he’d become involved in something that wasn’t really his business. In the end, he realized he wouldn’t be able to get away from the motorway scene, so he sent Rik Dean back to Blackpool to carry on with the investigation.

It was seven p.m. by the time that Henry made it to the public mortuary at Blackpool Victoria Hospital. He stood alongside a stainless steel slab, looking across the stripped body of Natalie Philips at the pathologist, who was ready to carry out a post-mortem that had already been delayed for four hours. She had been formally identified by her distraught mother some hours earlier, accompanied by Rik Dean and the Family Liaison Officer.

In the reception area outside, preparations were also underway for the arrival of the Asian youth, whose body, with explosives strapped to it, had eventually been scooped off the motorway tarmac and was next in line for the pathologist’s scalpel. That was a post-mortem Henry would not be attending because that incident had been taken over by a detective chief superintendent, much to Henry’s relief. He’d done his job at the scene and that was plenty.

Not long ago Henry would have fought hard for the opportunity to lead such a job but now, although he’d done well at the scene, it would have been too much for him. One murder at this delicate moment in his life was enough, thank you.

Professor Baines looked at Henry over the top of his surgical mask, which moved comically when he talked.

‘Been a busy day,’ he said, voice muffled by the mask.

‘I assume you’re going to do the PM on the boy?’ Henry knew the question was superfluous because Baines had been out at the scene to carry out his preliminary tasks. His second killing of the day, too.

‘I am.’

‘Best of luck.’

Natalie’s post-mortem lasted three hours. Baines concluded that she had been sexually assaulted, beaten about the head, most likely with fists and a blunt instrument of sorts, and then strangled, probably with something like a scarf. The pattern of the indentations in the skin around her neck, he believed, could possibly be matched to the item if it was ever recovered. He took all necessary samples from her.

Afterwards, Henry had a brief chat with Rik Dean to go over arrangements for the next day, then he’d gone home and started riffling unsuccessfully through his kitchen cupboards.

And by 11.30 p.m., Chinese takeaway propped up carefully in the front passenger footwell, he was returning home, relishing a midnight feast, maybe with an old Clint Eastwood film for company.

His phone rang. He answered without taking his hands from the steering wheel, still quite amazed by Bluetooth. ‘Henry Christie,’ he said, trying to sound brusque and businesslike. There was silence on the line. Henry repeated his name.

‘It’s me, Mark Carter,’ came the feeble sounding voice of the teenager who’d done a runner on Henry and Rik at the KFC. Mark had Henry’s mobile number from previous encounters, none of which had been pleasant.

‘Go on,’ Henry said coolly.

‘I’ve heard.’

‘Heard what?’

‘About Natalie.’

‘What about her?’

‘I didn’t do it… kill her.’

‘Well, we need to talk about that, don’t we? Blackpool nick, nine tomorrow morning. Be there,’ Henry said.

‘What about now?’

‘You heard — and don’t make me come looking for you.’ Henry ended the call. Instantly another one came in. ‘Henry Christie.’

Again, there was silence on the line. Henry wondered how Mark could have rung back so quickly. With irritation, he said, ‘Tomorrow morning, nine o’clock.’

‘Henry, it’s me.’

The voice was female, slightly breathless, hesitant and sweet. Henry recognized it immediately and he swerved to the side of the road, heart pounding.

‘Alison?’ he said.

‘Oh God, I’m sorry… I’ll hang up… this is ridiculous.’

‘No! No, it’s fine.’

‘It’s just… I’ve been dialling your number, then hanging up, or just pressing delete… a million times… a billion.’

Henry gasped. ‘How are you?’

‘Good. Question is, how are you? I was so sorry to hear about your wife. Kate?’

‘That’s OK. These things happen, but thanks.’

‘Such a tragedy.’

A tear formed on the lip of Henry’s right eyelid. ‘Yes.’

He had met Alison Marsh well over a year before when he had stumbled into her pub in the village of Kendleton in North Lancashire and found himself involved in some violent shenanigans with ruthless gangsters and corrupt cops. There had been an instant attraction, but at that time Henry had been happily married to a live and kicking Kate. Why would he have married her twice if he was going to be unfaithful, he’d thought. So he had kept Alison at arms’ length and following the events that took place in the village — during which Henry strongly suspected Alison may have killed a very bad man who was about to murder someone else — it was probably a wise thing to do. Part of him didn’t want to find the evidence that she’d pulled the trigger because it would have complicated an already confusing scenario. And she would have had to face a legal situation that she didn’t deserve. Fortunately there was another legitimate suspect who might have shot the man and the inquiry into the death veered away from Alison.

‘I didn’t know if… if I should ever phone you.’

‘I’m glad you did, Alison.’

‘Really?’ She sounded relieved.

‘Yeah, really… but so late?’

She laughed. It was a nice sound.

‘Hey, look. How does a coffee sound?’

‘Sounds brilliant,’ she said.

‘I’ll call you tomorrow, when I know what’s happening. I’ve got — er — some hot investigations ongoing.’ He almost chuckled at the way it sounded so self-important. ‘I’ll have more idea tomorrow afternoon, so it might be the day after…’

Henry breathed out at the end of the conversation; an amazed smile broke on his face. As he was about to set off the phone rang again. This time he didn’t get a chance to introduce himself as an American voice came strongly on the line. ‘Henry, where the hell are you?’ Karl Donaldson demanded. ‘That Chinese better be a massive portion because I’m starving and there’s nothing in your cupboards.’

Boone returned an hour later, fairly breathless and flustered, but businesslike. Flynn had spent the intervening time in Michelle’s laid back company, which, as she smoked a couple of spliffs, got even more relaxed. Flynn declined the offer of sharing one with her. Taking a drug other than alcohol — which he acknowledged was just as destructive as any other drug — did not appeal, not after all those years on the drugs branch, seeing the effects they had on people. He stuck with the Johnny Walker Black Label she produced. They’d chatted about their lives and she had gradually become very dreamy and sexy, her pupils expanding as they talked and she inhaled.

When Boone came back on to the houseboat, he was full of apologies. Flynn thought he was going to settle down for the night, but he went down to the main bedroom and stuffed clothing into a rucksack, with Michelle watching him in her haze.

He came back on to deck and said to Flynn, ‘Sorry mate, I need to get going.’ He rubbed his first finger and thumb together, meaning money. ‘Had an offer I can’t refuse, but I need to go now.’

Flynn said, ‘It’s midnight, near as dammit.’

‘I know. Needs must.’ He turned to Michelle who seemed to be floating on air. ‘Babe, sorry, but you know.’

She smiled wonkily, which was very alluring, Flynn thought. ‘It’s OK,’ she said.

Then to Flynn, Boone said, ‘Look, pal, hang on here if you can, will you? I should be four days at most, y’know, there and back. Easy in Shell and the weather’ll be kind.’

‘Want company?’ Flynn offered.

‘No,’ Boone snapped. ‘No,’ he said more softly. ‘Solo job — y’know how it is.’ He clicked his tongue. ‘Can you wait? Michelle will look after you — in a motherly way, that is.’

‘I can wait,’ Flynn said.

‘Look — go down the coast, do some shore fishing like we talked about. You know what you’re doing. Use my truck, no probs. But stay if you can. We still have a lot of fishing to do.’

As Henry stepped through the front door of his house, Leanne skulked out of the living room, gave him a heart-chilling stare and grunted, ‘Your friend is in there.’

‘And your friend?’ Henry said pointedly.

‘Gone,’ she said furiously. ‘Dad, you have no right-’

Henry’s right hand shot up, palm out: the classic police ‘stop’ signal. ‘I have every right to decide who comes into my house. We’ll talk about this later.’

‘Mum would’ve-’

Once again his hand shot up, this time his fingers spread apart to reiterate the body language. ‘That is not something you may ever — ever — throw back at me.’

She scowled, turning a lovely face into a harsh one, then stalked upstairs. Henry shook his head and entered the living room. He looked down the length of the open plan lounge/dining room to the conservatory beyond in which he could see Donaldson’s bulky figure slouched on the cane-backed sofa. He and Donaldson had had many serious discussions, and some not so serious, whilst sitting in the large conservatory that overlooked the rear garden and the flat farmland beyond. Henry had always liked the conservatory. It was a good place for relaxation, reflection and occasional nature watching. There was rumour that a housing estate was to be built on the back fields at some stage and if it ever happened, Henry would be devastated.

He walked through and called, ‘Hey’ to his friend, who turned and gave him a friendly wave. Henry raised the takeaway and said, ‘Enough for two, easily.’

‘Great — I helped myself to a beer, hope that’s OK.’ He held up a bottle of San Miguel.

‘No probs, bought some more anyway.’

Henry picked up his untouched JD from the coffee table as he walked past and downed it in one, then went into the kitchen where he plonked the food on a worktop and rooted out a couple of bowls and forks. As he opened the tin foil dishes, Donaldson joined him. The big American lounged on the door frame and sipped his beer. ‘Leanne’s pretty pissed at you.’

Henry tilted his head and looked at Donaldson, halfway through tipping boiled rice into a bowl. ‘I’m saving her from herself — and the git that was, or is, her boyfriend.’

Donaldson watched Henry divvy up the meal, finished his beer and took the bottle of Chinese beer that Henry gave him. Both then retired to the conservatory, perching their dishes on their laps and starting to eat.

The new dish was good, but there was something pleasant and familiar about a chicken curry that Henry missed slightly.

After they had each shovelled a few hot mouthfuls down, drunk some of the beer — which was exquisite — and the combination was having the desired effect, Henry looked at his friend.

Since their early morning conversation on Blackpool seafront — it seemed almost a lifetime ago — Henry had only seen Donaldson once. That had been when he had turned up in a police car at the scene of the shooting on the motorway. By then, all traffic had been stopped in both directions, diversions were in place, and Henry was waiting for the circus to turn up.

In the meantime, he had ensured that the body of the young Asian man had been covered by plastic sheeting and kept everyone away from it — once they were certain he was dead and nothing could be done to save him. The missing quadrant of his head and punched in face pretty much confirmed that. Once the scene protection was done, Henry had sat down with the AFO who had pulled the trigger.

Henry didn’t know him personally. He turned out to be a thirty-one-year-old constable by the name of Jeff Clarke, who had four years’ experience on firearms, and was also a police sniper — hence the accurate shooting. Until that moment, other than in training scenarios, Clarke had never pointed a weapon in anger at anyone.

Clarke had been ushered into the rear seat of the Volvo he’d arrived in — after his gun had been taken from him by Henry and sealed in the boot of his own car. Henry had done what was necessary with the scene, then had slid in alongside Clarke.

The officer was silent, stone-faced. He glanced suspiciously at Henry.

‘How’re you doing?’

Clarke’s cheeks blew out, he shook his head, shrugged, his hands jittered and he obviously couldn’t think of what to say.

‘You did well,’ Henry said.

‘I killed a man. A boy.’

‘Lawfully. I’ve checked him as much as I dare without contaminating or setting anything off, and he’s definitely got explosives strapped to his body and a detonator in his hand.’

Clarke nodded numbly, taking this in.

‘You did your job when it counted.’

‘Yeah, sure.’ He wiped some spittle from the corner of his mouth.

‘No — you were superb and I’ll back you up one hundred percent.’

Clarke angled his face at Henry, a cynical expression on it. ‘You’re a superintendent, aren’t you?’ Henry nodded. ‘Then forgive me for saying it, sir, but I’ll believe that when I see it. If I know this force, I’ll be strung out like wet keks.’

Henry realized this wasn’t a point of view he would be able to change sitting in the back of an ARV, on a motorway, fifty metres from a very dead body, so he didn’t try. Clarke would have to see that Henry meant his words in the fullness of time. His actions would speak for themselves.

Other cops and specialists — the circus — were rolling up to the scene, including Donaldson who arrived in a car with the FB and Martin Beckham, the MI5 man.

Henry laid a hand on Clarke’s shoulder, could not think of anything reassuring to say, so he got out and was instantly buffeted by the wind again.

He had stretched crime scene tape around the area, using police cars as temporary points to attach it from, and Donaldson immediately ducked under it and almost ran to the body, squatting on his haunches and lifting back the plastic sheet, great hope on his face.

Henry watched his head shake and a very pissed-off expression come on to his face. He lay the sheet back carefully and slouched dejectedly back to where Henry, FB and Beckham were standing behind the tape. Donaldson was still shaking his head.

‘Not Jamil Akram,’ Donaldson announced. ‘I thought it wasn’t from the description.’

‘Are you sure it was Akram you chased in the first place?’ Beckham said.

‘Totally.’

‘And you’re sure Akram is the one who knocked over a policeman?’

‘Totally. That guy,’ Donaldson jerked his thumb in the direction of the body on the carriageway, ‘is Rashid Rahman, the second of the two guys you briefed the cops on so well earlier. You know, the ones who were supposed to be holed up in a flat the cops were watching and who, somehow, got out without being seen? Shit like that happens, I know.’

‘And you’re sure you took a pot shot at Jamil Akram?’

‘As eggs is eggs — and somehow he changed places with that poor sucker, which means that Jamil Akram is still out there in the wide world, free as a bird.’

‘But you shot him — well, at least you say you did?’ Beckham sneered.

‘Oh, I shot him — obviously not well enough.’

‘Maybe you got it wrong in the heat of the moment. Maybe you didn’t chase Akram and maybe you didn’t put a bullet into him — maybe the male in the car was this one.’ Beckham gestured towards the body.

Donaldson and Beckham glared at each other and continued to bicker on the hard shoulder. Henry just walked away, stunned by the childishness of it all.

‘Are you and Mr Beckham friends yet?’ Henry asked Donaldson. They had finished their meal, the Chinese beers, and Henry had rooted out some more San Miguel, which was cooling them down.

‘Uh, wouldn’t say that,’ Donaldson muttered. ‘Reached an impasse, which is probably as good as it gets.’

‘So where is everything up to?’

‘Well, as you know, Rahman was rigged up to explode, so the death call by your man, PC Clarke, was right on the money. He did the right thing.’

‘Let’s hope he hears that from all the right places,’ Henry said. ‘Including the justice system.’

‘He will.’ Donaldson sipped his beer. ‘The guy I wrestled down near to the Tower, Zahid Sadiq, will now be at Paddington Green police station in London for questioning. Usual procedure with a terrorist. Hopefully I’ll get to have words with him at some point — if your security people will allow me. Both he and Rahman were wearing the same explosives rig, and the guy behind that, the bomb-maker and brain-washer Mr Jamil Akram, is still free and no doubt already out of the country.’

‘So quickly?’ Henry said in surprise.

‘Yup — organized to run, these guys.’

‘But you’re sure you shot him?’

Donaldson nodded and Henry believed him. ‘Winged the bastard, that’s all. I know exactly where I shot him.’ Donaldson pointed to a spot at the back of his own right bicep. He sighed. ‘Sadly it wasn’t through the head. They’ll find his blood in the car once they examine it.’

The plane touched down twenty minutes ahead of schedule. The tailwind had assisted passage, but the flight itself had been beset by turbulence and the seat belt signs had been lit for most of the journey. Most of the passengers were mute and a little afraid, despite attempts by the cabin crew to keep up spirits.

The small, ill-looking man in row 39, seat E — the window seat — hardly moved throughout the flight. He’d positioned himself at an unusual angle against the side of the plane, tucked in tightly, facing the window. He smiled wanly at the couple in the seats next to him, then closed his eyes and slept.

On landing he waited for most of the other passengers to leave the plane before tugging out the small piece of hand luggage he’d stored under the seat in front of him. Then he rose slowly and stiffly, and tried to disembark without drawing attention to himself.

It worked. No one had taken much notice of him. No one would really remember him, which was as it should be. He walked out unchallenged through the terminal building after showing his British passport to a bored and tired looking customs official.

Normally the interior of the plane would not have been so thoroughly cleaned. If it had been a straight turn around, the cabin crew would have done a quick once-through and without much care.

As it was, the plane had reached its resting place for the night and therefore a proper cleaning crew entered and worked their way methodically through it.

When a cleaner reached seat 39E, she stopped suddenly, puzzled at first by the dark stain on the seat and seat back. It was big, not the normal food or drink stain she usually came across. She beckoned over a colleague and both women inspected the stain closely, then looked knowingly at each other.

In unison, they said, ‘ Si, la sangre. ’

Blood.