Nick Oldham - Critical Threat

She was still alive.

Bill drove down the steep Montague Street, then at the bottom turned right into Preston Old Road, which snaked in a westerly direction out of Blackburn. The first mile or so of it was largely car showrooms, industrial units, shops and other business premises, before it became more residential further out of town.

‘Next petrol station on the left,’ Iqbal said.

About two hundred metres ahead Henry could see a BP garage with a large, wide forecourt and a shop. ‘What do you think?’ he asked Bill.

‘Pull up, go in?’

Bill drew the Galaxy on to the forecourt next to one of the pumps. Not an unusual sight as police vehicles are always filled up at local garages these days. A couple of other cars were at the pumps and there was a customer in the shop, browsing through the magazines.

A young Asian girl sat behind the counter.

‘That her?’ Henry asked.

Iqbal peered through the windscreen. ‘My eyes aren’t as good as they used to be, but yes.’

‘OK. Mr Iqbal, you stay in the car. You and me go in, Bill.’

They strolled together across the forecourt and into the shop. A customer ahead of them moved away from the counter and left the shop as they stepped in. As they approached the counter, Henry saw her name badge: Najma Ismat.

A shadow crossed her face as she watched the two men come up to her, her eyes flicking from Bill’s uniform to the battered face of Henry Christie.

Henry saw the family resemblance in Najma. She was less stunning than Sabera, but still very attractive, although her nose was quite hooked and her eyes were set deep and dark in her face.

Henry fished out his warrant card and leaned on the counter. ‘Najma — I’m DCI Christie …’ She immediately glanced round to the door behind her which led to a small office at the back of the shop.

‘Yes?’

‘Where is Mansur Rashid?’

‘I don’t … what?’ she blubbered, flustered. ‘Why would I know, and if I did, why should I tell you?’ she barked defensively, pulling herself together quite quickly, giving Henry a haughty, arrogant look … because of which he decided to give it to her right between the eyes. The time for pussyfooting around had long since gone.

‘Because he killed your sister, Sabera. That seems a pretty good reason to tell me.’

Najma winced as though Henry had applied an electric shock to her. She shook her head in denial. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Sabera’s still alive, living down south somewhere.’

‘When did you last hear from her?’

Behind the officers, another customer entered the shop. Henry spoke out of the side of his mouth to Bill, keeping his eyes on Najma. ‘Get him out and lock the door.’

A car also pulled up at a pump on the forecourt and the driver unhooked the petrol nozzle. A buzzer beeped and a button started flashing on the control panel in front of Najma. She pressed it automatically and the man started filling his tank.

‘A long time ago. Months,’ she said.

‘Does that not strike you as odd?’

‘I fell out with her.’ She was tight lipped.

Henry had come prepared. He took a folded, but slightly crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket, unfolded it and laid it out on the counter. It was a photograph of Sabera, showing her laughing, glowing whilst she sat in a Spanish restaurant.

‘A day after this, she was dead,’ he said brutally. ‘That was six months ago. She’s only just been identified.’

Najma’s face sagged.

The customer who had filled his car up was now at the shop door. Bill, who had nudged the other customer out of the shop and locked the door, mee-mawed at him to wait. There was a bit of a queue building up.

‘Mansur said he’d spoken to her recently.’

‘Mansur’s lying. He found her, abducted her, murdered her,’ Henry said, not one bit liking what he was doing.

‘No … you’re wrong. I know he hired a private investigator to trace her, but he said he’d spoken to her and … and …’ Her voice trailed off into the ether.

Najma sat back on the stool behind her, stunned.

‘Where is he?’ Henry said slowly. ‘If you know, you must tell me, if only for your sister’s sake.’ He was praying that she didn’t react so badly to the news that she became hysterical and impossible to handle.

Another car drew on to the forecourt. The buzzer on the control panel sounded as the driver removed the nozzle from the pump. ‘Listen, we don’t have a lot of time and I need to find Mansur rapidly. If you know where he is, tell me.’

‘Boss,’ Bill called from across the shop, ‘the package is preparing to move from venue one,’ he said, referring to Condoleezza Rice.

Henry nodded, but did not turn. His eyes bore into Najma.

‘Boss,’ Bill called again. Henry looked round this time and Bill pointed out of the shop door. He saw that Iqbal had got out of the ARV and was now at the shop door.

‘Keep him out.’ He twisted back to Najma. ‘Where is he?’

Najma glared up at him, sheer bloody defiance in her eyes. She stood up and spat at him. ‘You are lying. I need to tell you nothing.’

Henry wiped the spittle from his sore face, beginning to simmer. Not much more and he’d be at boiling point, but he kept himself under control.

‘He killed your sister, strangled her, beat her, drowned her and burned her body and he’s also got his hooks into you, hasn’t he … if you need protection, then I’ll give it, but tell me where he is now!’

Suddenly Iqbal emerged from the office behind the counter, having found his way into the shop via the rear door. He had overheard Henry’s last few lines to Najma and his face was contorted with rage and grief.

‘Granddad!’ Najma exclaimed on seeing him.

‘Najma — tell this man everything he needs to know, you foolish girl.’

‘But he’s lying … can’t you see he’s lying? They all lie. They hate us.’

Iqbal’s open hand came from nowhere as he cracked her across the face and sent her crashing against the cigarette shelves next to her shoulder. ‘This man does not lie,’ he screamed. ‘Mansur is evil. You have come under his spell. You must speak or more people will die.’ He raised his hand. She cowered.

‘Iqbal — no,’ Henry said, leaning across the counter and gently taking the old man’s arm.

‘Sometimes it is the only way.’

‘Maybe, maybe.’ Henry looked at Najma, who was down on her haunches in the narrow space behind the counter. To her he said, ‘He killed Sabera and today he’s going to kill again and I want to stop him before he does.’

Najma’s frightened eyes darted from Henry to Iqbal and back again. Iqbal still had his hand hovering for the follow-up slap.

‘I don’t know where he is,’ she said simply, totally deflated as tears welled up and cascaded over her face, ‘but I know what he plans to do.’

Henry turned to Bill. ‘Tell them all to clear off’ — he gestured with his hand at the confused customers on the forecourt — ‘the garage is closed and they’ve just had a free fill-up.’

The office behind the counter was tiny, just big enough for a small computer workstation and a couple of chairs. Najma sat at the desk sobbing into a piece of kitchen roll. Iqbal sat on the other chair, staring angrily at her, his arms folded, whilst Henry perched on the corner of the workstation and Bill filled the door with his bulk. The petrol pumps had been turned off from the main switch behind the counter and the shop door had been locked.

Henry was speaking softly. ‘I’m sorry about Sabera. I know you were close.’

‘How could you know?’ she demanded through her tears.

‘I’m a detective. It’s my job to find out things about people.’