Nick Oldham - Critical Threat

The woman was late fifties, dressed in a very western style. She was also extremely attractive and Henry could immediately see the likeness between her and the photographs taken by Eddie Daley of Sabera Rashid. He caught his breath.

‘My name is Henry Christie. I’m a detective chief inspector with Lancashire Constabulary … please don’t be alarmed by my appearance — it’s been a tough day … I’m looking for Najma Ismat.’ He tried one of his boyish smiles, but all his broken cheekbone would allow was a scary grimace.

‘What is going on out here?’ an Asian-accented male voice with a definite Lancashire twang demanded to know from inside the house. An old man appeared behind the lady. When he saw Henry, he said, ‘You!’ accusingly. It was Mr Iqbal, the old man Henry had innocently involved in a dangerous car chase whilst on the lookout for a suspect who had dropped through his ceiling and fled from the police raid Henry had led.

‘Mr Iqbal!’

‘Out of the way, girl,’ Iqbal said and elbowed past the woman, holding out a hand for Henry to shake. ‘Salma, this is the policeman I was telling you about,’ he said proudly, his chest swelling as he stood next to Henry and put his arm around him. ‘Henry Christie, this is my daughter, Salma Ismat. She’s a doctor, you know,’ he said proudly.

Henry proffered his hand hesitantly. She responded coolly, but shook his fingertips.

‘I am pleased to meet you,’ she bowed slightly. ‘My father cannot be quiet about his exciting ride in a police car … it made him a happy man.’

‘I thought I’d terrified you.’

‘Only in a good way,’ the old man said. He banged his chest with his fist. ‘Got the ticker pumping … exciting as hell.’

‘I’m pleased.’

Iqbal looked curiously at Henry. ‘Have you had a car crash?’

‘No … look, I don’t want to be abrupt, but does Najma Ismat live here?’

‘Najma is my daughter,’ the lady said.

‘Is she in?’

‘No, why?’

‘I need to speak to her urgently … I’m afraid I can’t explain why. She’s not in any trouble, it’s just that she might know something. I’m trying to trace Mansur Rashid and I think she might know where he is.’

‘That bastard!’ Iqbal hacked up and spat. ‘What’s he done?’

‘Do you know where he is?’ Henry asked again. ‘I need to locate him.’

‘No, we don’t,’ the woman said. ‘And we don’t want to.’

Another man appeared behind her, Henry guessing this was her husband.

‘What’s going on?’ he asked, his eyes taking in the scene.

‘This policeman wants to talk to Najma,’ she explained.

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know … when I saw the police car, I thought they’d come about Sabera for some reason.’

‘Why Najma?’ the father asked.

‘It’s not about Najma, it’s about that Mansur scum,’ Iqbal blurted.

‘You haven’t come about Sabera?’ the father said.

‘No … look, please,’ Henry said, aware this situation might well descend into farce if he wasn’t careful, especially when he noticed a fourth person standing behind the father, a young lad in his early teens, bobbing about on the balls of his feet, trying to see what was going on. Henry executed a chopping motion with the edges of his hands. ‘I’m trying to trace the whereabouts of Mansur Rashid, that’s all. I thought Najma might know where he was. If you know, it’ll save me talking to her.’

He felt a bit of a fraud not letting on about Sabera, but he didn’t want to complicate matters further at that moment. Time was critical, He glanced at his watch. Condoleezza Rice should just about be arriving at her first venue.

‘We don’t know where Najma is,’ the father said sadly. ‘But she works for Rashid and spends a lot of time with him, too. She’s become very influenced by him and his radical views. We’re very worried about her. And we’re worried about Sabera, his wife, our other daughter.’

‘I know where Najma might be,’ Iqbal interjected, raising a finger. He looked at Bill and the Ford Galaxy. ‘If I get a ride in that, I could take you.’

Iqbal positioned himself like a VIP in the middle of the back seat so he could lean forwards between Henry and Bill to direct them. He was chewing that sort of unidentifiable paste again, giving his breath a sweet tang.

Both officers leaned outwards to put a bit of distance between themselves and the old man.

‘Tell me about Rashid,’ Henry said as they set off, leaving a total of five people now standing at the door, another two relatives having emerged from inside the house.

‘He’s an extremist, always winding people up against the Brits,’ Iqbal said, chewing his cud. ‘Go down Preston New Road towards town,’ he instructed Bill.

‘What does he do for a living?’

‘Owns two petrol stations, two Indian restaurants, three shops, lots of property and drives fear into people’s hearts. Everyone is terrified of him, but the young kids — teenagers — think he’s great cos he’s always on about bombing and fundamentalism and stuff. I just think he’s a gangster using religion as a means to an end, but I’m an old guy, so what do I know, except I love this country. It’s been good to me.’

‘And he’s married to your granddaughter, is that right?’

‘Sabera, yeah.’ He looked glum. ‘It was an arranged marriage, but turned bad. He treated her horribly and eventually she did a runner, and to be honest, we didn’t blame her. If only she’d talked to us, though. We would have understood. We’re very liberal, you know. Haven’t seen her since … we’re very worried about her, actually. We think he may have done something to her, but we don’t know for sure.’

For the moment that was a path Henry did not want to venture down. Maybe later. His priority was to find Rashid and Akbar and hopefully stop a terrorist atrocity from occurring. The murder investigation could be put on hold for a few hours.

‘Has he ever been to your house in Accrington?’ Henry asked.

‘Oh yes, he was thinking about buying a house in the same row and had a good look around mine to see what it was like.’

‘Did he go into the attic?’

‘Yes — he was up there for ages, actually.’

‘And did he buy a house in the row?’

‘Dunno.’

Henry churned it over. That explained the escape route. And I’ll bet Rashid is the owner of the house that was raided, probably through some innocent intermediary, Henry guessed. Something to follow up, if it wasn’t already being done by other parties.

‘So what’s Rashid done?’ Iqbal asked. ‘Not planning to kill Condoleezza Rice, is he?’ he laughed, then stopped abruptly when he saw the expressions on the faces of the two coppers. ‘He bloody is, isn’t he?’ the old man gasped, shocked.

‘We think Rashid and another man are planning to assassinate her and I’m trying to find out where he is,’ Henry admitted.

The old man had slumped back in his seat, his hands laid on his chest, a stunned expression on his face, which had seeped a pale grey colour, similar to the shade he’d gone during the car chase.

‘Are you all right?’ Henry asked worriedly, hoping the old guy wasn’t going to expire in the back of the car.

He nodded, leaned forward again and said with urgency, ‘Down here, turn right into Montague Street … Najma could be working in the shop at one of Rashid’s petrol stations on Preston Old Road, that’s what she usually does … if she’s not there, I know where his other places of business are.’ He licked his lips and said, ‘Bastard,’ under his sweet breath.

According to the radio, Rice, aka ‘the Package’, had arrived safely at the first venue.