Nick Oldham - Instinct

‘It still might be,’ Donaldson warned. ‘Akram is back in town. Don’t forget Rahman’s video… “the big one is yet to come”.’ He exhaled. ‘That said, I need to make a phone call and warn somebody.’

As Donaldson stuffed the remainder of his bacon sandwich into his mouth, swilled it down with his coffee and got to his feet, Henry remembered something. It was eight fifty and Mark Carter was due to answer his bail at nine.

‘I need to move, too.’ Then Henry realized something else that he’d nearly forgotten. He put a hand on Donaldson’s sleeve. ‘Come down to the front desk with me. Might be something, might not… make your call on the way.’

Hung over, Mark Carter sat disconsolately in the public waiting area of the police station. He rocked slightly whilst waiting for the chance to get to the front counter and present himself, but there was a queue and he wasn’t in a hurry. His face fell when Henry appeared and beckoned him across. Henry opened the door for him and led him through to the custody office, booking him back into the system.

‘Do I need a brief?’ Mark asked when the question of his rights came up.

Henry said, ‘No.’

‘Can I trust you?’

‘No. This way.’ Henry steered him into an interview room and sat him down. ‘We need to wait a minute for someone to arrive, then we need a serious talk.’

‘Oh, it’s just been fun up to now, has it?’ Mark sneered.

‘C’mon babe,’ Donaldson whispered into his phone as he listened to it ring out.

Then a man’s voice came on. ‘Hello, Edina Marchmaine’s phone

… could I ask who’s calling, please?’ He had a southern accent and Donaldson was thrown slightly off kilter. Was this her husband, Hugo?

‘Can I ask who that is, please? I’m calling to speak to Mrs Marchmaine.’

‘My name is PC Archer from the Metropolitan Police.’

‘What are you doing with Mrs Marchmaine’s phone?’

‘I’m sorry, sir, but you need to tell me who you are.’

Feeling this ping-pong could go on for a while, Donaldson said — with dread — ‘An old friend… John Hancock from America,’ a poor ad-lib, but all he could come up with there and then. ‘We’re due to have lunch today, Mrs Marchmaine and I.’

‘I’m sorry,’ the voice said, ‘but Mrs Marchmaine has had an accident…’

‘A bad one?’

‘I’m sorry to say, sir, but she died in a fall from her balcony last night… you wouldn’t happen to know-’

Donaldson hung up. He stepped aside as two office workers crushed past him on the stairwell. He had to grab the banister to steady himself and to swallow hard so as not to vomit.

Henry could not understand what the look on Donaldson’s face meant when he came into the interview room. He could see there was an expression of deep shock, but beyond that he didn’t have a clue. Henry looked at his friend with his own brow deeply furrowed and asked, ‘Are you OK?’ Donaldson gave a quick shake of the head. Henry gave him a further — brief — puzzled look, then turned back to Mark Carter sitting at the interview room table.

‘You guys know each other,’ Henry said. Mark and Donaldson had met as a result of Mark having witnessed a hit and run that had involved an Italian mobster who was hiding out, and ultimately the FBI. ‘I won’t waste time on introductions.’

Henry expected Donaldson to offer at least a handshake, but nothing came.

Mark squinted at Henry, alcohol-induced pain behind his eyes, and said, ‘Big guns, eh? Brought in the Yanks.’

‘Mark, serious this,’ Henry said. The lad shrugged insolently. Donaldson, seemingly in his own world, leaned back on the wall. To Henry, he seemed to have lost his focus all of a sudden. Ten minutes before he’d been excitedly jigsawing the pieces together, now he looked as though he didn’t give a damn. Phone call, Henry thought. He said, ‘I’ll get straight to it-’

‘Hang on,’ Mark interrupted. ‘First off, do I need a brief, or what? Second, I haven’t heard you caution me. Third, why’s the tape not turned on?’

There was a rapid blur of movement as Donaldson erupted without warning. He shot across the gap between him and the teenager, and before Henry could react, Mark was hoisted by his throat off the chair, which went over with a clatter, and found himself pinned hard against the back wall. Donaldson’s face was less than an inch from Mark’s, his features contorted with fury.

‘Listen, fucker,’ he growled, ‘don’t make the mistake of thinking this is anything like a police interview. It isn’t. This is about terrorists who kill fuckers like you. So sit and answer these questions or I’ll make a point of seeing you outside these walls, then you can answer my questions.’

Donaldson swung Mark back around, righted his chair for him and plonked him back down into it.

Mark rubbed his neck, gasping for air, having realized that Donaldson was something different and dangerous. Nervously Mark said, ‘Look man, I didn’t kill her. Honestly.’

Donaldson had returned to the wall, arms folded, as though he had expended no effort.

Henry, stunned for the moment, had not moved. He swallowed and wondered if he might sneak out of the room and submit his ‘Intention to Retire’ report before he lost his job. He cleared his throat. ‘We know you didn’t. This is about her, but in a different way. You need to answer everything I ask truthfully, even if you’re repeating gossip, OK?’

Mark’s eyes darted to Donaldson as though he expected another attack. ‘Just ask, OK?’ he said, keeping his eyes on the American, though addressing Henry.

‘Remember you talked about Sadiq and Rahman being like the musketeers? What did you mean?’

‘Uh, that they always hung around together. All for one, that kind of shit. All the time, in each other’s pockets. Didn’t even have much to do with any other of the Asian students. Always whispering and looking at the rest of us like we were shit.’

‘But there were three musketeers.’

‘There were three of them.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Aramis, Porthos-’

‘No you idiot — Sadiq, Rahman — and who? Do you mean there was another one of them?’

‘Umar Ali.’

‘Who’s that?’

‘Another student.’

‘Why didn’t you say anything about him last time we talked?’

‘You didn’t ask.’

Henry’s right hand bunched into a fist, but it was himself he wanted to punch. In his experience, anyone talking unwillingly to the cops, as Mark was, doesn’t just blab unless they’re unloading guilt. No one tells you anything, was what he’d learned over the years, unless you ask them. Henry kicked himself for not being on the ball.

‘Do you know anything about Umar Ali?’

‘Just a student. On the same course as the other two, politics, or something crap like that… But you’re wrong,’ Mark finished.

‘About what?’

‘There were four musketeers… well, sort of.’

‘How do you mean?’ Henry glanced at Donaldson. Still brooding.

‘Aramis, Porthos, Athos… and d’Artagnan. Well, he’s a sort of apprentice musketeer, but he’s one of them. Seen the films.’

‘How does that relate to Sadiq and Rahman?’

‘Well, there was Umar Ali, making three… and Mr Haq, making four.’

‘Who the fuck’s Mr Haq?’

‘College lecturer. He was always knocking around with them — and Natalie. She was always sniffing around them, too. If you ask me, Mr Haq was a bit too friendly with her — and them — and other girls. They were well into girls, cos they were good-looking lads and a bit mysterious.’

‘In what way?’

‘Always whispering, like I said.’