Instinct (24 page)

Flynn had only seen his face briefly from his hiding place behind some oil barrels, but he was convinced it was Akram. His eyes were as good as they'd ever been, honed by five years of searching sun-glistening waves for the sight of blue marlin on the move.

It wasn't a difficult equation for Flynn to work out.

Boone was clearly still in the cargo trade. He had brought Akram back to the Gambia from wherever – the news reports, Flynn noticed, were sparse on the details of where Akram might have gone to. But Boone was involved. Old habits and all that shit, Flynn had thought. Boone was just keeping his hand in, making money as and when. It was in his blood. That's what he did. And it had led to his death because the men who came after him were the ones who had been guarding Akram.

So what had Boone done to incur their ire?

He'd delivered the package. But then what? The fact was that Boone had been browsing pages on his computer about a man who, it was alleged, had been helping some young Islamic fundamentalists to cause carnage in Blackpool, a place Flynn knew well. He'd been a cop there once. Had lived with his wife there – until it had all gone wrong.

Flynn concluded that Boone hadn't known who he was transporting at first. Then he'd found out. And had that knowledge killed him?

Flynn asked himself again – what had Boone done to bring about his death?

The answer was a guess. Boone was a hothead, a guy with an eye for the main chance and not above blackmail.

Could that be it? Had he discovered the true value of his cargo and gone to demand more money, or had he threatened to go to the authorities? Or both? Flynn could imagine Boone combining the two with the subtlety of a bull elephant's charge.

What Flynn had also found interesting in the news reports he had read was a name that cropped up a few times – that of Detective Superintendent Henry Christie who had been at the scene of the police shooting of one of the suspected terrorists. Henry Christie – a name Flynn could conjure with all day. But, interesting as the name was, Christie was peripheral to Flynn's own investigations and intentions.

Flynn had healed quickly, one of the benefits of being fit and healthy. The gouge the bullet had taken out of him had been closed, meshed and bandaged by the tame, money-driven doctor. Then, with the assistance of liberal doses of good painkillers, sunshine and alcohol, and a festering desire for retribution, Flynn had reached a stage where he thought he could act.

And now he was back in the Gambia. He didn't care what the reason was for Boone's death, he just knew that he didn't deserve to die in that terrible way. And what of Michelle? Not knowing her fate had been gnawing away at Flynn intensely.

He turned into the creek and stopped abruptly.

Boone's boat was still tethered there, apparently unscathed. Flynn's heart whammed in his chest. He truly had not expected this, especially having just seen the wreck of the houseboat. At the very least he thought he would find a burned-out husk or no boat at all.

But here she was,
Shell
, rocking gently in the creek water alongside the other boats moored here.

Had she been commandeered by Boone's killers? Did she now belong to someone else?

He moved quietly in his soft-soled deck shoes, his right hand snaking to the small of his back, fingers clasping the handle of the Glock which he extracted slowly and held down by his hip.

There was no sign of life on board, but the boat looked OK.

Instinctively he dropped into a defensive crouch as he approached the stern, where he stopped and listened. Heard nothing.

It was a short leap on to the aft deck, sidestepping the fighting chair. He landed with hardly a noise and stood completely still, listening again. He approached the sliding door that led into the cockpit and tried the handle. The door slid open an inch. He opened it further, wide enough for him to step through into the cockpit. To his right were the wheel and controls, to his left the bench seat and bait area. Ahead was the door, beyond which were the steps leading to the galley and living accommodation.

He crossed to this door and tried the handle. This was locked.

Flynn swore under his breath, took a step back to weigh up the door which was made of thick UPVC in a frame, rather like the back door of a house. In his time as a cop Flynn had booted down many doors, although it had become progressively harder. As a drugs branch detective, entering premises through locked doors was a regular occurrence. In the old days, most doors could easily be removed by size elevens and determination. But as UPVC and multi-lock doors became more common, the cops had become more sophisticated, in a rough sort of way, in their attempts to batter them down. The door Flynn faced that evening was of the newer variety, and even though it was on a boat it was still substantial. He doubted his ability to kick it open using the flat-footed method – but was going to give it a try anyway.

He angled himself side-on to the door, gritted his teeth, and got into the mental attitude required to boot down the door.

But at that moment he felt a gun barrel pressing into the back of his neck, just below his trimmed hairline, at the point where his skull connected with his spine. Flynn did not move an inch, other than to open his fingers when a voice said, ‘Drop your gun.'

FOURTEEN

M
ark Carter had not answered his bail and Henry was fuming, convinced he could be doing better, more interesting things than hanging around in a grotty police station. Although when he analysed that thought, he wasn't exactly sure what. As Alison was back at her pub in Kendleton, he wouldn't be with her, so the probability was that the only place he would be right now would be alone, splayed out on the settee at home gripping a beer and trying to get his head around why Kate had loved soap operas so much. Or maybe propping up the bar down at the Tram & Tower, his local, bending the ear of Ken, the landlord, who'd become a bit of an unwilling listening post for him.

Maybe being annoyed at the police station, waiting for someone to answer bail, wasn't such a bad option.

He checked his watch for the umpteenth time and looked across at Rik Dean, who was busying himself with paperwork. Then his mobile rang and the display read, ‘Unknown Caller'. Henry said, ‘Bet this is him  . . . Henry Christie.'

‘Detective Superintendent Christie?' came the crisp, upper-class tones that Henry recognized instantly: the spookmeister, Martin Beckham. Henry snatched the pen from Rik's fingers.

‘Mr Beckham, hello – at last.'

‘Mm, this is only a courtesy call.' Beckham sounded unwilling even to speak and Henry guessed he was doing so under pressure from some other quarters. ‘You sent a list of questions and some requests concerning Zahid Sadiq.'

‘Oh yes  . . . when was that? I'd almost forgotten.'

‘Sarcasm will get you nothing,' Beckham's voice hardened. ‘Just to say that our interviewers questioned him on your behalf and he made no comment, so I'm afraid that's where it ends.'

‘He made no comment?' Henry asked incredulously. ‘His ejaculate was found inside a female murder victim and you allowed him to make no comment?'

‘That is the situation.'

‘In that case, I need to come and interview him properly, like I should have been allowed to do in the first place.'

‘Are you suggesting that my interviewers are less than competent?'

‘What I'm suggesting is that an investigator with a feel for the brutal murder of a teenage girl needs to speak to this guy, who must be seen as a prime suspect until I'm satisfied otherwise.'

Beckham gave a harsh laugh. ‘I may point out to you that the ejaculate, as you so delicately put it, is only one of four specimens found inside a girl who, it would appear, was of loose morals and may well have been the author of her own downfall.'

Henry tugged his collar, feeling the redness of anger shoot up his neck. ‘Can I quote you on that?' he asked, trying to keep his voice level. ‘She is a murder victim and I have a job to do, and, as far as I can see, you are obstructing justice.'

‘The bigger picture, Superintendent. I assume you've heard that term before?' Beckham said patronizingly. ‘Sadiq is an asset in the war against terrorism and you will not have access to him.'

‘I know all about the bigger picture, but in this case there is no bigger picture than finding out who killed an innocent teenager,' Henry responded.

The line went silent.

Beckham said, ‘Maybe when we've finished with him, you can have him.'

‘And what will be left of the poor misguided bastard?'

‘Not much, but that's the best I can do. And if you want my opinion, he didn't kill her.'

‘What about Akram? Don't forget his sperm was also found inside her.'

‘How would I know?'

‘When can I have him, then?'

‘To be determined, dear boy,' Beckham replied, keeping up the patronizing tone.

Henry was almost crushing his mobile phone, but he controlled himself and asked, ‘There is something else. I also asked you to check the items that you seized from Sadiq's flat to see if there were any DNA traces of the dead girl on any of the stuff.'

‘There was no trace of anything relating to the girl,' Beckham said. ‘It looks like she was never there. In fact there wasn't really much of anything there.'

‘OK,' Henry said, and he ended the call.

‘Nada?' Rik said, as Henry placed his phone down on the table.

‘Zilch,' Henry confirmed, wishing he knew a way around the situation. He paced the small office. It was an extreme idea, but the media was a possibility. Go to the papers, slag off MI5? He dismissed that. Apart from the fact it was likely the story would be suppressed from the highest level, he would find himself deep in the mire – shit that would probably follow him into retirement. His anger subsided – a little – and he checked his watch again. ‘I think I'll go and see if I can collar Mark Carter. I need somebody to shout at. Coming?'

Rik shook his head. Henry handed him his pen back, not having used it, grabbed a set of keys for a CID car and headed down to the police garage. There was no way he was going to drive his Mercedes around the hellhole that was Shoreside estate. He wasn't bothered if the wheels disappeared from a police car.

They decided on a new location for their next meeting later that evening.

Donaldson made certain he wasn't followed and insisted Edina did the same. Trouble was, Donaldson knew that the ‘Watchers', as the surveillance branch of MI5 was called, were the best in the world. They could tail even the most surveillance conscious target without ever revealing themselves. However, basic precautions could be taken, such as stopping abruptly, false window-shopping to look at reflections rather than the display, doubling back and looking at faces, as well as ducking into shops through one door and leaving via another. Edina was unfazed and said she knew what to do.

When she appeared at the Spanish restaurant in a medium-sized shopping arcade just off Victoria Street, Westminster, at eight that evening, she looked beautiful and relaxed. She had strolled the mile or so from her apartment close to the Home Office, overlooking the Thames.

They shared paella, food that Donaldson loved. It was a good one, a mix of seafood and chicken, freshly prepared. The accompanying Spanish beer complemented it perfectly. As Edina scraped a spoon across the paella pan for the tasty burned layer on the bottom, Donaldson asked, ‘Can we talk now?'

She had drunk the best part of the bottle of Rioja. Her eyes glistened as she placed the spoon into her mouth and chewed the burned rice that coated the pan.

‘I can't actually answer the question you asked about Blackpool, but I can tell you one thing. There were three of them.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Not two, but three.'

Donaldson sat back.

‘Three boys, not two.' Her words were slightly slurred but clear. ‘The two you caught – Sadiq and Rahman – and another one who had been brainwashed or radicalized or whatever it's called. As far as I can gather, his whereabouts are unknown, as are the whereabouts of Jamil Akram. But they believe this little escapade isn't yet over. That's why they're keeping a tight reign on Sadiq, but so far he's told them nothing useful.' Edina chuckled. ‘A teenage boy is holding out against some of the world's most experienced interrogators.'

‘I saw you run,' she said accusingly. ‘You left me to die.'

‘Could you possibly point that thing in another direction?'

Steve Flynn was sitting on the bench seat in
Shell
's cockpit and the woman after whom the boat had been named was perched on the fighting chair, a double-barrelled sawn-off shotgun resting across her lap, but loosely aimed at Flynn's groin. If it had been discharged, even if he had survived the blast, he would be minus his genitals.

‘You left me behind, ran off,' she said. ‘I saw you climb back on to the quayside. Then you ran away.' The aim stayed the same.

Flynn said, ‘I couldn't have helped, Michelle. I'd been shot  . . . may I?' He wasn't sure why he felt the need to do this, but he eased up his T-shirt and peeled back the dressing to show the ugly red, raised scar across his ribcage. ‘I was unarmed. I thought I might be dying anyway. I could hardly move. I would've been no use. As soon as I made a move, I would have been killed. I was too slow. I knew Boone was dead. I just had to hope that they wouldn't kill you as well, because I knew even then, that if I lived, I'd be coming back.' He replaced the dressing and pulled his shirt down.

Michelle raised the shotgun and trained it on Flynn's chest. The double hammers were cocked and her finger was curled across both triggers.

Flynn stopped breathing. ‘Michelle, I'm back. I came back,' he whispered.

‘You left me,' she accused him. ‘You left Boone.'