Nick Oldham - Instinct

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.

A sour-faced, very exhausted Mark Carter sat defiantly in an interview room at Blackpool police station. His arms were folded and he glared up at the camera positioned high in one corner that recorded his movements. Having attended the station voluntarily he had not been arrested, but he knew it was probably only a matter of time.

Not that it worried him. He’d done nothing wrong, but there was always a problem demonstrating innocence to cops. They always worked on the assumption that you were guilty and worked backwards from there, making the jigsaw fit around that. At least that is what Mark Carter believed they did. Fit you up because it was easier than unearthing the truth.

He jerked his middle finger up at the camera lens and mouthed a word that didn’t need a lip reader to translate.

Henry’s morning had been hectic. Up at six thirty after a fitful night’s sleep exacerbated by severe indigestion: note — order chicken curry in future because that never made him feel bad. He had showered speedily and was walking into the station just after seven, trying to focus his mind on the day ahead.

He met Rik Dean in Rik’s office just off the main CID office, where they sat down over a strong filter coffee and bacon sandwiches to organize the hours that lay ahead. They worked on to-do lists, wanting to miss nothing, and get the inquiry into Natalie Philips’s murder kick-started. Henry was aware that some of the momentum had been lost already because he’d got involved in yesterday’s motorway mayhem. He wanted to pick up speed and get a well-briefed team out there knocking on doors, making people who knew Natalie feel very uncomfortable. He knew how crucial the first seventy-two hours of a murder investigation were — and that had now been whittled down to forty-eight hours.