Critical Threat (3 page)

It was planned to take place at noon, giving both women the time to travel from opposite ends of the country.

As it was in the very early days after leaving her husband, Sabera was more suspicious and careful than she later became when she thought everything was fine. She drove up the motorway to the junction above the services, circled the roundabout, then came back down and parked on the outer edge of the services car park one hour before she was due to meet Najma. And she was in a hire car. She made sure she had a good view of the entry slip road, the car park itself and the entrance to the shops and cafés.

It wasn't that she mistrusted her sister – she didn't – it was more that she feared the deviousness and influence of her husband.

Better safe than sorry.

As it was she was right to be wary. She had only just parked up and settled low in her seat when Najma drove in to the car park in her Nissan Micra, which Sabera recognized instantly, and pulled up near to the shops. Sabera's relief at seeing Najma arrive alone was almost palpable, the pleasure of seeing her overwhelming … her hand moved to the door handle and she was about to open it, when something made her hesitate, stay back in the car and sink down low behind the steering wheel. Maybe it was because Najma had never arrived on time for anything, let alone fifty minutes early. A punctual Najma was not the sister Sabera knew, so she waited.

Najma got out of the Nissan and stood by it, looking nervously around and back towards the slip road, checking her watch.

A feeling of dread coursed through Sabera as she observed her sister. Why was she waiting there? They had arranged to meet in the café.

Less than five minutes later a battered Transit van trundled off the motorway and drew into a vacant parking space near to Najma's car. Now Sabera's heart plummeted and caught up with her dread as her husband stepped down from the passenger seat and stretched himself like an overweight lion. Two of his brothers also got out.

The idea that Najma had betrayed her made Sabera want to be sick.

She sank even lower as she watched the four people. Najma and Sabera's husband were having a discussion. He laid his hands on her shoulders and seemed to be speaking soothingly to her whilst she nodded in response to his words.

Sabera sat there stunned as all four of them then entered the services, her husband's hand at the small of Najma's back.

She wanted to believe that Najma was acting under duress, but from what she had witnessed, that was not the case. She gave them a minute, then, eyes blurred with tears, drove off, heading south, lesson learned.

Trust no one.

Since that day Sabera had never spoken to her sister. It wasn't that she totally blamed her, but it meant that any face-to-face contact with any of her family was fraught with danger.

At 2 a.m., Sabera lay awake in Sanjay's flat – in Sanjay's bed – thinking about the incident at the motorway services and how she had felt, whilst fingering the wonderful necklace Sanjay had presented her with earlier that night, a total, incredible surprise. It had been devastating to be let down by Najma and to never speak to her again had been horrible but necessary, even though Sabera desperately wanted to ask her why.

A period of great self-doubt and depression had followed, but Sabera had stuck to her guns because she knew that despite the massive personal cost to herself and her family, she could never return nor let them discover her whereabouts.

And now here she was, having made probably the next biggest step in her life … to allow a man back into it.

She sighed and turned her head slowly, brushing her hair out of her face, and looked at Sanjay asleep beside her, his face illuminated by the low-wattage bedside lamp.

It had been more wonderful than she could have imagined – and to be honest, she had feared the worst, a rerun of her husband. But it had been nothing like. She had never experienced anything remotely close to it. That was how it should be all the time. Tender. Loving. Slow-fast-slow, sometimes almost out of control from both sides, but always – always – with love, passion and respect.

And, when he urged her to straddle him, she had done so shyly at first, but finished writhing in ecstasy, her head thrown back whilst they both came together, and she knew it would be all right.

So that's what an orgasm is, she'd thought, smiling to herself as she sank down, exhausted, on to Sanjay's chest. I want more.

She rolled over to face him and laid a warm hand on his chest, touching his nipples with her fingertips. He mumbled something and stirred. She ran her hand across his flat stomach and touched him timidly, feeling him grow. Something else she had never done in her life – taken hold of a man in such a way. With her husband it would have been unseemly and sluttish, even in the early days of her marriage.

From that moment, as Sanjay awoke fully, their lovemaking clicked up a gear to frantic – and fantastic – but this time with Sanjay on top, Sabera's hands stretched above her head whilst he gently held her wrists and moved and wriggled inside her in a way she had never thought possible, touching nerve endings she never thought she had. She rose, once more, to an amazing climax, Sanjay following shortly after, then, spent, his weight crushed down on her.

They lay in each other's arms, sweating, panting, hearts beating, hands touching, caressing, until everything subsided and they fell asleep.

It is estimated that the time of least resistance of the human being is around four in the morning, the time when the metabolism is at its slowest. Which is the exact time that the door to Sanjay's flat was smashed from its hinges by two men bearing sledgehammers. Shattered by the first few blows, the flimsy door virtually disintegrated into splinters and a third man rushed through the newly created opening. It was only a tiny, one-bedroomed flat, and this man entered that room within seconds.

Both occupants, Sabera and Sanjay, woken from their deep sleep, were confused, stunned and frightened, unable to offer any form of resistance.

The lead intruder lunged at Sabera, grabbed a fistful of her hair and hauled her naked out of the bed and threw her face down on the floor. With speed and skill he twisted her arms behind her, knelt down on her spine between her shoulder blades and bound her tiny wrists with parcel tape, which he tore with his teeth. He flicked her over and ran tape right around her face, covering her mouth, preventing any noise.

At the same time, the two others manhandled a dopey and submissive Sanjay, dragged him across the room, and threw him into a wicker rocking chair, to which he was fastened and gagged by more parcel tape.

To secure and gag both of them took less than a minute.

A large, curved knife appeared in the hand of one of the men standing by Sanjay.

He moved behind the wicker chair, yanked back Sanjay's head and held the knife at his throat.

The other men removed the quilt from its cover, then laid the empty cover on the floor and lifted up the now struggling, squirming Sabera and dropped her on to it, rolling her easily in it and binding it with more tape.

Her terrified lover watched in wide-eyed horror from his ringside seat. His eyes rose and looked into those of the man behind him with a knife resting across his exposed throat.

The two men easily lifted the bundle that was Sabera and carried her out of the bedroom between them as though she was a roll of carpet.

The third man stayed with his knife at Sanjay's throat, saying nothing. The incredibly sharp blade began to cut Sanjay's tender skin. Then the two other men returned, accompanied by another who stood directly in front of Sanjay. At first Sanjay could not look at him, jerking his head away, but the man touched his chin and rotated Sanjay's face back.

Instinctively Sanjay knew he was looking into the eyes of Sabera's husband.

Sabera lay bound and gagged, trussed up in the duvet cover. She remained unmoving, trying now to stay calm and concentrate on her breathing, which was proving extremely difficult through the parcel tape wrapped tightly around her face. Her mouth was clamped shut by it and she could just about inhale through one nostril. Even that was not easy as the duvet cover prevented a free flow of air.

Then she started to cry when she thought about Sanjay and what might have happened to him. If he had been harmed, and she was sure he would have been – because it was the way things were – then it was all her fault for recklessly involving him in her stupid, ill-conceived life.

Sobs wracked her body, but it was as difficult to cry as it was to breathe.

And now here she was tied up in the boot of a car, travelling quickly on straight roads – motorways. Had to be. M1 out of London, then on to the M6, heading to the northwest.

Back home.

She began to cry for herself.

H
enry Christie had not been having a good time of things recently. Having been harassed and threatened by his boss, Detective Chief Superintendent Dave Anger, over what should have been a long-buried personal matter (Henry had slept with Anger's wife when she hadn't been his wife many years before), Henry had handed the guy's head on a plate, metaphorically speaking, to the chief constable. The side dish had included secretly taken video footage of Anger trashing Henry's trusty Mondeo with a metal bar.

But the organization he worked for – Lancashire Constabulary – had done its usual job of dithering, stalling, ‘umming' and ‘ahhing' and doing nothing, which it often did in such touchy circumstances. So by default of its inaction, the victim ended up suffering whilst the perpetrator was allowed to carry on, business as usual, and the organization tried to brush the whole sorry mess under the chief's carpet in order not to lose face. Henry thought that there must have been a lot of such bumps under that carpet that no one seemed to have the bottle to stamp on.

What surprised him the most was his own pathetic naivety. He had actually believed that something would be done, that the firm would grasp the nettle, show that it wasn't afraid to address such matters and the offender would get his just desserts and find himself demoted or transferred or fined or prosecuted or jobless even … whatever … and that the innocent party – in this case, Henry James Christie – would be allowed to continue operating as a senior investigating officer on the Force Major Incident Team knowing that the wheels of justice were grinding away.

Wrong.

Eventually, when nothing happened, when no one from Professional Standards contacted him, when no one from Human Resources offered him a shoulder to cry on, he took to his local and at the bar had a series of good, long bourbons until he ended up cackling with hysterical laughter at himself and had to be asked to leave because he was frightening the other customers.

Six months down the line, the offending chief superintendent was still at the helm of FMIT in his cushy headquarters office with a nice, leafy view of the sports field, whilst Henry was still on the team sitting in his satellite office (‘office' being a euphemism for ‘cubby hole') at Blackpool Central Police Station finding his position completely untenable.

He should have known they would close ranks. They always did at that level, rather like the three musketeers – or was it the ten masons? It was made known to him, with some subtlety, via informal inter-force chat lines and bog gossip, that he would not be getting a decent job anywhere again and that it was actually poor Dave Anger who was the victim of a spiteful, unprofessional, unbalanced inspector who was at best unreliable and at worst a dangerous liability who used force resources – unauthorized – to further his ridiculous claims. But these were only whispers, of course. Nothing on paper, zero said to his face. They were a powerful bunch, the chief supers, especially when threatened.

And then came the news that completely floored Henry, making him immediately request an interview with the chief constable – something that proved almost as tough as getting an audience with the Pope.

‘Why do you want to see him?' the chief's staff officer had barked down Henry's mobile phone in response to the email request Henry had sent. Henry knew that the staff officer was a filter for all emails to the chief and that he would try to block anything he could. The chief was a busy man and liked to avoid as much work as possible.

‘Personal,' Henry said shortly. He had no time for this newly-appointed little jerk of a chief inspector, a jobsworth who had far greater career prospects than Henry had ever had. ‘Why?'

‘He needs to know.'

‘I expect he'll have an inkling.'

‘An inkling isn't good enough.'

‘I'll tell him when I see him … as I recall, I'm not obliged to put it on paper if it's a personal matter.'

‘You haven't even put it on paper.'

‘Print out the email,' Henry suggested.

‘I mean a typed, signed request on form G43,' the chief inspector qualified, getting shirty.

‘I'll have it to you in ten minutes.'

‘Eh? And how will you achieve that?' said the chief inspector, now a little flustered.

‘Ways 'n' means,' Henry said, and thumbed the end-call button on his phone. ‘Ways 'n' means,' he said to himself grimly.

The staff officer, whose name was Laker, had obviously expected Henry to be in his office in Blackpool. He was actually at the headquarters training centre on a two-day Race and Diversity course for middle managers, having a mid-morning coffee break in the main dining room. He swigged down his bitter, machine-brewed latte and rose from the circle of other course participants gathered glumly around the table and strutted out to the student resource room next to the training centre reception. He sat down at a free computer and logged in to the system. He opened a word document and bashed out a short, pithy request, hammering the keyboard with his bitten fingertips, hoping that his frustration would pass itself from key to letter. He then printed it off, signed it, logged out.