Nick Oldham - Instinct

‘Do you know anything about Umar Ali?’

Mark shrugged, rubbed his throat, eyed Donaldson warily. ‘Not much

… but there is one thing… I heard he was living with Mr Haq. Not arse-bandits, like. A lodger, I think.’

A feeling of dread washed through Henry. ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘Do you know where Haq lives?’

Mark looked uncomfortable. ‘Might do.’

‘Just tell me.’

‘Just off the town centre. I once followed Natalie to his place.’

‘Street name?’ Henry demanded.

‘No idea.’

Henry turned to Donaldson. ‘Shit,’ he said again.

‘What?’ Donaldson grunted.

Henry took out his mobile phone, half-expecting there not to be a signal. There was. He dialled Rik Dean’s number. ‘Where are you?’ he demanded curtly of the DI.

‘MIR, why?’

‘Natalie Philips? When we spoke to her mum, there was mention of a teacher at college, yeah? Hadn’t her mum found something in a diary? Do you remember? I should fucking know this, but I don’t,’ Henry said, infuriated at himself.

‘I remember. It got actioned. One of the teams went to see him, but there was no reply and, as far as I know, no revisit as yet. What’s the rush? You sound stressed up again.’

‘Find the guy’s name and address.’

Henry heard Rik shuffling through papers. ‘Here it is… yep, no reply, revisit to be allocated. I think things have moved on a bit since, though.’

‘Name and address,’ Henry said.

‘Salim.’

‘ Salim? ’

‘Yeah… Salim Haq, or Haq Salim… interchangeable, I suppose.’

‘Address?’

‘It’s… it’s on Springfield Road, Blackpool… ooh,’ Rik said, realizing. ‘Which is where Driver picked up Natalie from…’

‘What number Springfield Road?’

On receiving the information they moved quickly into position. Eight men, all dressed similarly in zip-up wind jammers, jeans and trainers. All were unshaven, their hair unkempt, their age ranging from twenty-six to forty-two. They travelled in four vehicles, a Range Rover, Ford Galaxy, BMW 320 and an Audi A4, two in each. They were at the address within minutes.

They were not overly concerned about having next to no time for preparation. This was how they were used to operating. Prep time was a luxury; nice when it happened, but unusual.

That did not mean they were reckless. They were a close-knit unit, knew precisely how each other worked, were fitter than Olympic decathletes and they trained constantly using highly stressful scenarios that were as close to reality as could be. Sometimes they were allowed to plan, sometimes they just acted, ad-libbed and relied on their extreme professionalism and disregard for human life.

They had spent the previous night on the Lancashire Moors and the pre-dawn hitting their practice target, a disused hospital in which a hostage was being held. The place was booby-trapped throughout with tripwires, beams, alarms and people waiting to kill them. Their only briefing had been that this was a hot operation and that the hostage had to be freed. They did this at 5.05 a.m., successfully killing every terrorist and releasing the hostage. Then, before they could debrief, they had received the call from London ordering them to move to Blackpool and be ready for a real event. Training was over.

They had no time for anything other than a drive-by reconnaissance, their orders being that they had to act immediately. They discussed their tactics on the move, then went for it, all checking the mug shot they had received on their mobile phones and the names of the other two people suspected to be inside.

Gaining access to the building was easy. It was a terraced house, divided into two large flats, ground and first floor. They were in the hallway, outside flat number one, when they pulled on their full-face ski masks and drew their weapons out of their clothing.

The explosives expert fitted the plastic explosive to the front door of the flat in such a way that the hinges and lock would be blasted off and the door itself would be left standing, ready for the boot down and entry of the first two members of the team. The explosion was muffled, hardly loud enough to hear, and then they were in.

Once inside, they worked in pairs, moving through the lounge area, then into the two bedrooms.

Not one of the three occupants had been roused by their entry.

They found their first target in bedroom number one, the man whose face they’d just looked at on their phones. He stirred groggily, lifted himself on to his elbows and was dead before he’d even had a chance to rub his eyes. A silenced double-tap to the head.

The other bedroom contained the other two men, sleeping in camp beds. These men were woken, thrown out of their beds and their names demanded of them.

Then they too were shot dead.

And that was it. Job done. And away.

Karl Donaldson stood mutely over the body of Jamil Akram, still in his bed. He rubbed his tired face and shook his head. Henry came up behind him and laid a hand on his shoulder. Donaldson turned to look at him. His eyes were sunken, red and watery, his skin tight.

‘They wanted him and they got him,’ the American growled.

‘This is what you wanted, isn’t it?’ Henry nodded his head at the dead man.

‘I wanted him my way, but we gave him to them.’

‘What do you mean?’

Donaldson brandished his mobile phone in front of Henry’s nose. ‘They were listening to everything, one step ahead.’

‘That much is obvious.’

‘And they had a team ready and waiting.’

‘SAS?’

‘Probably, who knows? Another thing for sure, this will get well buried.’

‘Already happening,’ Henry said.

Donaldson exhaled. Henry thought he looked much older now. The extraordinarily good-looking college-boy Yank had somehow gone and been replaced by a more weary, haggard, battle-scarred individual.

‘At least they were stopped,’ Henry said.

Explosives, detonators, time switches, power sources, fishing vests and maps of the Blackpool resort had all been found in the apartment. A quick scan of the maps and some tourist information leaflets had pinpointed the target and the mission. It all pointed to the third musketeer, Umar Ali, strapping explosives to his body and walking into Blackpool Pleasure beach, the huge amusement and ride site in Blackpool south. He would have joined a queue for the most popular attraction therein. Then, when the queue snaked into the covered waiting area in which about two hundred people would be patiently waiting their turn, he would have detonated himself. The name of the attraction was the Big One, one of Europe’s biggest roller coasters; making sense of the claim made by Rashid Rahman that this was just the start of a campaign and that the big one was yet to come.

‘What’s that?’ Donaldson nodded down at a book in Henry’s hand.

Henry held up the exercise book in a clear plastic evidence bag. Flowers and love hearts were inscribed on the front and back covers, brightly coloured by an immature artist. There were names in the love hearts… Zahid… Rashid… Lewis… Mark.

‘One of Natalie’s school books,’ Henry said sadly. ‘There’re others. And this.’ Henry lifted up a supermarket carrier bag which looked like it contained a hairy animal of some sort, but closer inspection revealed that it was human head and body hair. ‘This is where they prepared themselves.’

Donaldson didn’t seem to hear. He held Henry’s gaze, his eyes watering over. ‘They killed her, Henry,’ he said. ‘No, scratch that

… I got Edina killed.’

Two weeks later. Henry’s mobile phone rang, ringtone Miss You. It was 4.30 a.m. He rolled over with an annoyed curse, thinking, ‘This cannot be right. I’m not even at home. I’m on leave.’ His fingers found it. He tapped on the bedside light and rose on to his elbow and answered it.