Critical Threat (24 page)

As he reached the front of the queue, he wasn't even sure what he was going to say. As usual, he was going to wing it. He produced his warrant card for the receptionist and introduced himself. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Henry Christie from Lancashire Constabulary … I wonder if I could have a word with your practice manager, please.'

‘Could I say what about?'

He pushed his card into his top pocket. ‘Not really,' he said painfully. ‘A delicate matter, police business.'

‘OK.' She picked up a phone and punched in a number. ‘Helen? It's Rachel on reception … there's a police officer here wishing to see you … no, he didn't say … OK.' She hung up. ‘She'll be along in a couple of minutes. Would you like to take a seat?'

Henry stood browsing the notice boards, fearing for his very existence if he didn't eat five portions of fruit and veg per day, didn't exercise for twenty minutes, three times a week, and had erection problems. Sometimes he wished he did have the latter. An erect penis had put him in so many hairy situations.

A pleasant looking middle-aged lady appeared by his side, smelling strongly of smoke. ‘Hello. I'm Helen Baxter, the practice manager. I hope I haven't done anything wrong, but if I have, I don't mind being handcuffed.'

It was an admission that stumped Henry for a moment.

‘Just kidding,' she said and tapped him on the arm.

‘Ha ha.'

‘So what can I do for you, DCI Christie, is it?'

‘Yes, it was an odd thing,' Mrs Baxter – ‘call me Helen' – was saying as she looked at the photograph Henry produced from his case. It was a close-up of the woman's face with no one else in it. ‘She just upped and went.'

‘So this is definitely Sabera Ismat?'

They had retreated to Mrs Baxter's small office in the far reaches of the health centre and were awaiting tea. She was being helpful in a playful sort of way.

‘Oh yes, that's definitely her. She came as a locum and then started running a sort of clinic/self-help group for Asian women who'd been abused. It was very popular and she was doing some good work. But to be fair, I can't say I knew her all that well.'

There was a knock on the door and an Asian lady came in bearing a tray of tea and biscuits.

‘Excuse me,' she said politely.

‘That's OK, Aysha – just put the tray down here.' She pointed to a coffee table by the desk. Henry glanced at the woman and his glance turned to a squint as he recognized her as the Asian woman positioned behind Sabera Ismat in one of the photographs. She began laying out the cups and saucers.

‘So she just disappeared?' Henry said, slowly taking back the photograph from Mrs Baxter.

There was a clatter and a crash as a cup dropped on to the tray. It did not break. The tea-bearing lady said sorry and stood the cup upright on a saucer.

‘You can let us do the mothering,' Mrs Baxter said.

The young woman turned to leave and Henry watched her go, fleetingly catching her eye, seeing a troubled look on her face.

He did the honours and poured the tea. ‘What do you know about her, then?'

‘Not a lot, really,' Mrs Baxter said thoughtfully. ‘Look, what is this about?'

‘I just need to find her and speak to her about something. Beyond that, I can't really tell you a lot. You understand?'

Mrs Baxter tapped her nose. ‘Police business?'

‘Exactly.'

‘Mm, OK, let me think … she sort of came from nowhere, I suppose. Dr Khan took her on. He wanted her to start immediately as a locum, even without interview, but that's not too unusual. Dr Khan's one of the practice partners and what he says goes, I suppose.'

Henry nodded. ‘Does he know what happened to her?'

‘He told me she'd had to deal with a family emergency. I asked him if she'd be coming back and he said he doubted it.'

Henry nodded. ‘I need to speak to him, then, I suppose.' He paused. ‘Do you have any employment records for her, just out of interest?'

‘I do.' Mrs Baxter rose and crossed the office to a filing cabinet. She slid open the top drawer and riffled through the suspension files with her fingertips. She got to the end, then worked her way back, muttering, then started her search again. ‘Odd,' she said, this time going slowly through the files, peering carefully at the tabs. ‘Strange … her file isn't here … and I know I haven't archived it.'

They were words which sent a suspicious tingle down Henry's spine. As ever, when he became excited by the prospect of prey, his bum twitched with anticipation. ‘Is Dr Khan in today?' he asked calmly.

‘I haven't actually seen him, to be honest,' Mrs Baxter said, her face still down looking for the missing file. ‘He is in, though, because he had an early surgery, although …' She raised her head and looked at the wall clock. ‘He could well be out on home visits now.'

She slammed the filing cabinet drawer shut. ‘Not here,' she pouted, ‘definitely not here.' Back at her desk she picked up the phone and dialled an extension at which there was obviously no response. She redialled. ‘Oh, hello Aysha, it's Helen … has Dr Khan gone out on home visits? Yes? Right, OK, thanks for that.' She hung up and said, ‘About half an hour ago.'

‘Right.'

‘He's usually out all morning, but he has another surgery at two. Why don't you call back about one thirty? He should be in by then, and available.'

‘I might just do that.'

‘Can I ask you something?'

‘Fire away.'

‘Is Sabera in trouble?'

Henry got a brief mental glimpse of a pathetic, charred corpse. ‘Like I said,' he grimaced in a way which suggested he really would like to tell her something, ‘I can't really say.'

‘I understand,' she said with disappointment. ‘Ooh, I know! She was quite friendly with Aysha, the lady who came in here with the tea? She's a receptionist. I think her and Sabera were pretty pally. It might be worth having a chat with her.'

‘Sounds good.'

‘Come on.' Mrs Baxter stood up and led Henry back through the complex. ‘You've come a long way,' she commented. Henry nodded. ‘Sabera was from up north, I'm pretty sure. Blackburn, I think.' She led Henry to a door at the back of the reception desk. ‘Rachel?' she called to the girl who had greeted Henry earlier. ‘Is Aysha about?'

Rachel, sitting at the counter behind the Plexiglass screen, turned with a harassed expression. There was a queue of patients and two phones were ringing. She was the only one there. She glared at Mrs Baxter. ‘No, she just put her coat on and dashed out, leaving me to sort all this.' She held up her hands to indicate her world of chaos.

‘Where has she gone?'

‘How would I know? Just ran out.' Rachel forced a smile at one of the people in front of her and said, ‘Just one moment,' then picked up a phone and said a curt, ‘Yes?'

Mrs Baxter turned to Henry. ‘Strange.'

‘Lots of strange things going on, but no matter,' he said. ‘I'll pop back and see Dr Khan later … and thanks for your assistance … Helen …' He shook her hand quickly and headed at a pace for the exit on the off chance he might be able to catch up with the receptionist who had gone AWOL.

The pavements were still wet from the overnight downpour, but the rain had ceased and the clouds were dispersing. Henry rushed out of the health centre clutching his briefcase under his arm and dashed on to Old Brompton Road, scanning as he went.

The young woman could not have gone far, but as Henry knew, people could disappear within the blink of an eye. He had no way of knowing in which direction she had legged it, so he took a fifty/fifty chance, followed his instinct and hurried towards the West Brompton tube station on the District Line and caught sight of her standing on the road bridge opposite Earl's Court Exhibition Centre spanning the underground line. She was talking into her mobile phone, constantly looking around as she did, as though the cops might be after her. Henry ducked into a doorway, keeping her in sight, his arse doing some real twitching now.

Was it coincidence she had done a runner from work on the very morning he'd turned up asking a few questions and showing photographs?

Naah.

Although he was not close enough to hear her, he could tell she was screaming down the phone, gesticulating as she spoke, until the call ended. She looked at it with frustration, as though she was going to lob it over the bridge, shaking it angrily. Spinning on her heels, she crossed over the bridge, staying on the same side of the road, and scuttled away.

Henry stepped out from cover, began to follow.

He stayed about fifty metres behind her as she rushed past the entrance to Brompton Cemetery. Henry glanced to his right and caught sight of Stamford Bridge football ground, home of Chelsea FC, giving an involuntary shiver at the thought of all the money that had been ploughed into it.

Aysha walked across the junction with Finborough Road, then Redcliffe Gardens, pushing in a north-easterly direction towards South Kensington.

It was easy to tail her using buildings and other people for cover, and because she did not once look back over her shoulder.

Suddenly she turned into a Starbucks and went out of view.

Henry stopped, again relying on his instincts and what little he knew of the woman. She was a health centre receptionist, seemed to be in a panic, wasn't likely to be versed in street-craft, so he guessed it would be unlikely she had spotted him and gone straight through Starbucks and out the back. He needed to get in a position from where he could monitor the front door. There was a Costa Coffee shop diagonally opposite on the other side of the road. He crossed quickly, took the chance to buy a coffee and wedged himself into a window seat, placed his briefcase on the window ledge, settled down and waited whilst churning the morning's events and discoveries through his brain.

If Sabera was the burned-out corpse, then he believed he had just unearthed a very good suspect for her murder in Dr Khan – someone who at the very least had some hard questions to answer – and possibly an accomplice, too, in the form of Aysha.

Henry was having great fun. And the coffee tasted great.

He did not have to hang around long.

Ten minutes later, a man he instantly recognized walked hastily past his window, a matter of only three feet away, then crossed the road and entered Starbucks.

He waited a few moments. Let him settle. Let him get a brew.

A smile came to Henry's face, the kind of smile a cat gives when it's been amongst the pigeons and is now about to lick the cream.

The couple were sitting at one of the tables in Starbucks, in deep but agitated conversation. They didn't even see Henry enter the café, didn't even look up as he wove his way between tables, chairs and other customers.

It took a couple of seconds before they even registered he was standing behind them, rather like the spectre of their consciences.

They turned slowly, theatrically, faces horror-struck, plastered with guilt.

The kind of expressions Henry enjoyed seeing.

‘Mornin',' he said, grinning.

Unfortunately, his ebullient approach to the situation meant that he dropped his guard and unexpectedly, the man who he knew to be Dr Khan, twisted round hard and drove his elbow into Henry's groin with all the force he could muster.

Aysha stood up and screamed.

Henry doubled over, dropping his briefcase, both hands instinctively covering his testicles, whilst he blew out like a whale.

Khan shot to his feet and pushed him over backwards, again with force, knocking him over a chair and sending him sprawling into another table at which two young mothers were sitting gabbing with their offspring in prams next to them. Henry's right knee gave way at that moment and he fell between them, sending their hot frothy drinks everywhere. He just caught a glimpse of Khan's feet running past him.

He reached out to grab, but the doctor sidestepped neatly and was gone.

There was no time to apologize. He heaved himself up using a table, rising wet from the spilled coffee, aware of the stunned faces of the customers and shouts of dismay and anger.

Henry had a decision to make: should he bag Aysha or go for the doctor?

He somehow knew that the doctor was the one he needed most.

He jabbed his finger at Aysha and slavered, ‘You get back to work and stay there,' with spittle coming out of his mouth.

He flung his briefcase over the serving counter, shouting, ‘Look after that,' to staff and, leaping over the table he'd upended, he gave chase, chunnering the word ‘Bastard!' between his teeth as he flung open the door and skidded comically out on to Old Brompton Road, seeing Khan running in the direction he'd come from, towards the tube station.

Seething, Henry clenched his jaw and set off, attracting worried looks from all other pedestrians. He got going like a lumbering steam train, arms pounding like engine cylinders, glad of the time he'd spent in Special Projects because one of his own special projects had been to get fit again and being dumped in headquarters had given him that chance by way of extended lunchtimes and three-mile daily runs. In fact, he didn't consider himself a steam train. By dropping more than a stone in weight, he'd become a whippet, all six-two and thirteen stones of him.

Unfortunately, Khan also looked like he could run. He was small and wiry and had no trouble skipping round people, but his lack of experience in running away from the police showed. Anyone who had experience of having to outrun the fuzz would have known to cross the road and dive into the busy area outside Earl's Court, using the cover provided by others. Instead he chose to do a left into Brompton Cemetery through the north gate and run down the central avenue of the huge, almost deserted cemetery in the direction of the chapel at the far end.

Henry powered after him, also aware that most doctors don't practise what they preach: health and fitness. At least, Henry's own whisky-swilling GP didn't.