Nick Oldham - Instinct

Eventually they entered the office. Again, basic. Large wooden desk, a big comfy chair for Aleef and a plastic one for the client. Behind the desk, bracketed to the wall, stood the safe.

‘Open it,’ Flynn said, propelling Aleef forwards. He stumbled down in front of it, and dabbed a finger from his uninjured hand on the digital keypad, then turned the handle as it beeped. Flynn heard the heavy locking mechanism scrape back. Aleef turned to Flynn, despair on his face and in his body language at the prospect of losing his money.

‘Who are you? Who are you who will leave me a pauper?’ He sounded like a character from Dickens.

‘That would be telling. Best you don’t know.’ He jerked the Glock. ‘Carry on.’ Aleef bent to the task of pulling open the safe. ‘When did he leave?’ Flynn asked.

‘Who, sir?’

‘You know who I’m talking about.’

‘Ahh, that man. Maybe two days ago.’

‘Did you arrange his travel?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘How did he travel?’

‘Air.’

‘From where to where?’

‘Banjul to Gatwick, England.’

‘He just flew? Just like that?’

‘Yes — on a false passport.’

‘Also arranged by you?’

‘I am a fixer,’ Aleef said humbly.

‘Actually, you are as much of a terrorist as him.’

‘I’m a businessman,’ he protested. Aleef pulled down the handle with a metallic clang and eased open the safe door. He came slightly upright and showed Flynn the contents: stack upon stack of cash, many currencies, all denominations, all carefully bound.

‘That is what Mr Boone wanted.’

‘Stand away,’ Flynn said.

Aleef edged back a few inches, his eyes jittery. Next to the desk was a waste paper basket lined with a supermarket carrier bag. Flynn pulled the bag out with his left hand, placed it on the desk, took hold of its base and tipped the contents on to the floor. He handed the bag to Aleef.

‘Fill it — dollars and sterling only.’

Colour seeped from Aleef’s face. ‘That is virtually all of my money.’

‘Eggs in one basket,’ Flynn winked. ‘Now fucking fill the bag.’ He pointed the gun at Aleef’s groin.

Aleef swallowed and got to the task, half-filling the bag with many blocks of carefully counted money.

‘How much?’ Flynn asked.

‘Thirty-two thousand US dollars, four thousand sterling.’

‘Not even close to the value of a man’s life,’ Flynn muttered.

‘His choice, not mine.’

Aleef suddenly swung the bag at Flynn, let go of the handle and it flew towards him, the money inside helping to propel it. Flynn ducked instinctively. Aleef’s right hand came up holding a small calibre gun. Flynn realized that the weapon must have been concealed in the safe, obviously for moments like this, and Aleef had managed to palm it without Flynn seeing it. Sneaky bastard, Flynn thought.

But as sneaky and underhand as he was, he was slow and Flynn had not relaxed enough for someone like Aleef to get the better of him. As soon as he saw the gun moving, the Glock jerked up and two bullets from it slammed into Aleef’s chest, knocking him back against the wall. He slithered down it, dead.

Flynn picked up the carrier bag, slammed the safe shut with a kick, and left the office after locking it up.

Within minutes he was back at the place where Boone’s Land Cruiser had been parked, expecting to find it gone, but Michelle was still there, having ignored his instructions. Just as he knew she would. He climbed into the passenger seat and they exchanged a look.

‘Just get back to the boat,’ Flynn said, ‘no questions.’

She nodded, started the engine.

‘It might be better for you to lie low for a while. Can you do that?’

She nodded again. ‘I have family in Sierra Leone. I can go there by bus.’

‘What about by boat? Boone said you were a natural sailor. Can you pilot the boat?’

‘He taught me.’

‘On the ocean?’

‘On the ocean,’ she confirmed.

‘Good — take the boat. It would be a crime not to.’

‘But I don’t have money. I couldn’t afford to.’

‘You do now.’ Flynn held up the carrier bag.

Henry, Rik, Donaldson and a CSI entered the flat in Blackpool that had been used by Zahid Sadiq and Rashid Rahman, and visited by Jamil Akram, the bomb-maker. The landlord, awakened at such an early hour, had been surprisingly cooperative, and let the detectives in again, not saying a word. He still had not managed to re-let it, nor had he received any word about getting the contents back from MI5. He let them in and said he was going back to bed and not to bother him unless absolutely necessary. He also reconfirmed that no one had been in or used the flat since their last visit.

Once inside, Henry looked expectantly at Donaldson.

‘Follow me,’ he said. He led them towards the bathroom, a fairly disgusting room consisting of toilet, wash basin and shower cubicle, all tiled, but the grout stained with black mildew. It was just about big enough for Donaldson to step into and turn around. He slid his hand into his back pocket and extracted a folded sheet of paper which he opened out. ‘I got the lovely Mr Beckham to fax this to me, obviously thinking he had nothing to lose by doing so.’ He handed the sheet to Henry. ‘An itemized list of property seized by his forensic team from this bathroom.’

Henry scanned the very short list. Two hand towels, a bar of soap, a roll-on deodorant, a shower mat. Henry shook his head, puzzled. ‘What’s missing?’ Donaldson said.

Henry looked blankly at his friend. He was too tired. ‘Just tell me.’

‘Other than soap, no toiletries.’

Henry’s expression was still blank.

Donaldson sighed. ‘What do you have next to your sink at home?’

Henry could have fallen asleep standing up. ‘Like I said, just-’

‘OK, I’ll tell you. Shaving foam or gel and a razor, yeah?’

‘Maybe they used an electric one.’

‘Not in the complete inventory for the rest of the flat.’ He tapped his back pocket. ‘Got it here.’

‘What are you getting at?’ Henry’s shoulders had sagged.

‘Did you bring a wrench?’

‘I’ve got it,’ Rik said. He was behind Henry, who said, ‘Even got the monkey.’

Rik held up a large adjustable wrench that Henry had acquired from the police station janitor.

‘Gimme.’ Donaldson took it from him, turned to the sink and went on to his knees in front of it. The pipe down from the plughole dropped into a plastic U-bend with large plastic nuts that were capable of being loosened by hand. They unscrewed easily after the first use of force and a moment later Donaldson stood up with the complete U-bend in his hands. He fitted the plug into the sink and then emptied the contents of the U-bend into it.

The water in it had obviously been standing for about a fortnight and was scummy and stinky.

‘There,’ he declared proudly, ‘what do you think?’

Henry, Rik and the CSI crammed into the bathroom to have a look.

‘Water. From a U-bend. What am I missing here?’ Henry said.

Donaldson reached into his other back jeans pocket and pulled out four crumpled photographs.

Zahid Sadiq and Rashid Rahman. Two students prepared to give their lives for a highly suspect cause. There were two shots of Rahman: one that Donaldson had downloaded from the video, the other a close-up of his face on the mortuary slab after having been shot on the motorway. And two of Sadiq: a college photograph and a mug shot taken on his arrest.

‘What’s not in here?’ Donaldson indicated the room.

‘Shaving gear,’ Henry said, as it started to dawn on him.

‘What was not on their faces or heads when we got to them? Me in town, you on the motorway.’ Donaldson held up the photographs for them to see.