Nick Oldham - Critical Threat

‘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.