Instinct (7 page)

He paid, took the bagged-up meals and drinks and passed them over to Rik. The KFC server did not once catch his eye, acting like he was on a
Brave New World
production line, which in essence was almost true.

Henry drove out and pulled into one of the grill bays on the car park by the side of the restaurant. Rik frowned. He'd been deeply engrossed in sending and receiving text messages – presumably to and from Lisa – and hadn't even raised his eyes at the drive-thru, even when he'd been given the food to hold. Now he had a quizzical look on his face.

‘We're eating here?'

‘How do you feel about striking while the iron's hot?'

Rik shook his head, no idea what Henry meant.

‘Mark Carter – you didn't see him?' Rik shook his head again. ‘He's the moron who served us.'

Rik pouted. ‘Can't do any harm, I suppose. Let's play it by ear, see what he says about Natalie. We don't have to mention she's dead, do we? It's not common knowledge yet.'

‘My thoughts exactly.'

‘Let's eat first. I hate cold KFC.'

‘Er – no,' Henry said, as much as he wanted to devour his food. If Mark was linked to Natalie's death and he
had
clocked Henry in the drive-thru, he could well be spooked and ready to run. Rik emitted a sound of great disappointment.

Henry knew Mark for a few reasons, none of them good. Firstly, Henry had dealt with the death of Mark's sister from an overdose of a lethal drug concoction and Mark had helped Henry track down the supplier. Secondly, Mark had witnessed a murder and this had resulted in Mark's mother becoming a target for killers who'd actually been trying to track down and silence Mark.

Henry had always thought Mark was a fundamentally decent lad, struggling against a crap upbringing. His father had disappeared many years before and he'd been raised by a mother more concerned with a fraught love life than giving Mark the attention he deserved.

Henry also had a bit of his own baggage with Mark. Truth was that Henry had used Mark for his own ends when tracking down the aforementioned dealer, making fake promises before cutting him loose. And Mark still bore that grudge, rightly, even though Henry had been instrumental in keeping Mark out of the hands of social workers after his mother's brutal death.

Henry hadn't had contact with Mark for months now. And here he was again, turning up like a bad penny, half-suspecting that Mark might have committed a murder without any supporting evidence.

Inside the restaurant there were two vague queues up to the counter and Henry spotted Mark, capped and uniformed, at the drive-thru window, taking orders via a headset, collecting money and dispensing food. He did not once look up at anyone in the cars.

Henry and Rik walked to the gap at the right of the counter and waited to catch Mark's eye. But it was as if the lad was on autopilot, everything blanked out bar his task.

Another server, bearing a manager's badge, stepped up. He was nothing more than a mega-spotty lad.

‘Help you guys?' he asked. ‘Queue's there,' he said authoritatively.

Henry saw his name was Marlon. ‘Need to speak to that lad.' He pointed a finger at the still oblivious Mark.

‘I'm afraid he's a bit busy. May I ask what it's about?' Marlon asked, doing well to string the words together. Henry showed his warrant card and Marlon squinted at it.

‘Mm, OK.' The manager turned to Mark who was handing a bagged-up meal through the serving window to a passing motorist. He tapped him on the shoulder and spoke into his ear. It was quite noisy in the restaurant with piped music, voices, cooking sounds, traffic. Mark leaned sideways slightly, his eyes came into focus and he recognized Henry, who gave him a little wave. Mark's face wilted. In his short life – he was now seventeen – the appearance of Henry Christie had always spelled trouble.

Mark muttered something to Marlon, who nodded and returned to Henry.

‘I'll let you have five with him, pal,' Marlon said. ‘He just needs to fulfil these orders and I need to deploy someone to stand in for him. That'll be me, I guess. So if you want to grab a seat.'

‘OK, no probs, Marlon,' Henry said. The detectives backed off and found an empty table.

Henry did not sit, though. ‘You hang on here,' he told Rik. ‘I'll just mooch out back.'

‘Think he'll do a runner?'

‘He's programmed for it.' Henry glanced over the counter. Marlon had already stepped in for Mark who was nowhere to be seen. Henry walked quickly out, made his way to the rear of the restaurant, and leaned casually on the wall next to a fire exit. He started to count, and as he reached five, the fire door opened outwards and Mark Carter stepped through, zipping up his jacket. Although he glanced both ways, Henry, flat against the wall, was just outside his field of vision for a moment – until the detective pivoted, grabbed Mark by the jacket and slammed him against the wall.

‘Shit,' Mark uttered, taken completely by surprise.

‘Naughty boy,' Henry said, pinning him back with one hand, his elbow locked straight. Mark struggled for a few seconds, realized the futility of it and then sagged in acceptance of the situation.

‘What do you want, Henry?'

‘Hey – didn't realize you'd got a job as a chef.'

Mark eyed him. ‘I'm at college. It just about keeps me afloat. Like I said, what do you want?'

‘Natalie Philips.'

‘What about her?'

‘When did you last see her?'

Mark shrugged, pulled a face. ‘Dunno. Couple of days ago – why?'

‘Been reported missing. Her mum's worried.'

Mark snorted derisively.

‘What's that supposed to mean?'

‘About as worried as my mum used to be about me. Look,' Mark was still stuck to the wall, ‘let me go, eh? Won't run. Promise.'

‘How can I believe that? You've already tried.'

‘Only cos I don't like you. You bring fuckin' trouble all the time.'

Henry released his grip. ‘When did you last see Natalie and under what circumstances?'

Mark shrugged again. ‘Like I said, couple of days ago.'

‘Where?'

‘College. She does hairdressing there.' Mark's eyes played over Henry's face, trying to read him. ‘Why do you want to know anyway? I know what you do  . . .' Mark faltered. ‘You investigate murders,' he said slowly. His lips pursed into an unspoken question as his mind tried to pull the fragments of his knowledge together. And he hit the jackpot. ‘You don't investigate missing persons.'

‘I hear you were her boyfriend,' Henry probed, ignoring Mark's conclusions. Mark suddenly withdrew into himself. Henry sensed that the promise about not running was about to be broken. His hand shot out again.

‘Were you?' he demanded.

‘I  . . . I might've been,' he stuttered.

Suddenly Rik Dean skidded around the corner of the KFC, a harried look on his face, his personal radio gripped in his right hand. Henry looked at him, annoyed, his face saying, ‘What?'

‘We need to go – now.' Rik waved the PR, from which could be heard shouts and general noises of mayhem.

‘Why?' Henry released his grip on Mark's jacket. Mark didn't hesitate. He saw the opportunity and fled, ducking sideways, vaulting over a low fence and away, leaving Henry faffing in thin air. He turned on Rik, almost apoplectic. ‘Why?'

‘Officer down,' Rik said.

FIVE

T
here had been times in the lives of both men when they'd had to endure tedious hours, sometimes days, of just sitting, watching and waiting for someone to move, or show up – or as in today's case, simply get into a car and drive off. It was part of the job, but no one could argue that it was anything less than soul destroying. Like most aspects of law enforcement, boredom ruled ninety-eight percent of the time. But most law enforcement officers thrived on the two percent, when it all came together and the adrenaline flowed like champagne.

Today was nothing, particularly for these two men. At least Bill had a roving commission of sorts, whereas the others on the stake-out were tied to their observation points come hell or shine.

They reminisced for a while, each trying to outdo the other with tales of boredom. Donaldson got the gold medal. A four-week long surveillance of a gang of suspected armed robbers operating out of a factory unit in Miami. Donaldson, then a true field agent – a role he recalled with fond whimsy – had endured the month cooped up in a ship's container with no air-con and very basic sanitation. He and his partner, Joe Kovaks, were determined to see it through, despite the contempt of their colleagues. The gang of four were supposed to set out from the unit, commit their crimes, then return and destroy every fibre of clothing in a blast furnace and wash themselves thoroughly, before stepping back into society.

The intelligence was partly correct.

They did return to the warehouse having committed four cross-state armed robberies in quick succession, killing one man in the process, but where they had set out from was never established.

Donaldson and Kovaks rounded them up without a shot being fired and recovered close to four million dollars in cash.

‘Good days,' he said dreamily, recalling how shit-scared he'd been.

‘Never had anything quite like that,' Robbins admitted, ‘but I was part of a team that arrested four armed robbers doing a bank in Preston a couple of years back. Real scary stuff, but I think they were more scared of us, really.'

‘I got that impression too.'

‘You worked Miami, then?'

‘Yep – and New York for a while.'

‘And what happened to your partner, Joe, was it?'

Donaldson gulped. ‘Dead. Hit by a mobster in Miami.'

‘Sorry.'

‘Yeah, sometimes part of the territory,' Donaldson said. ‘But, reality is, these things are usually damp squibs, even when the bad guys turn up.' He checked his watch and wondered why he'd really decided to hop in with Bill. Mainly to avoid spending time with FB and Beckham, he supposed. But he'd had enough now and there was no need for him to be out and about. ‘How's about dropping me off at the police station, bud?'

‘No stamina?'

‘Agreed – no stamina.'

‘Not a problem.' Bill started up the Vauxhall, weaved his way to the promenade and drove south, past the Hilton and Imperial Hotels on his left, reaching the huge Metropole building on the right, then to the traffic lights at Talbot Square. Donaldson, slumped low in his seat, absent-mindedly watched pedestrians on the pavement to his left. Lots of them. As the lights changed, Bill set off slowly, past Talbot Square, with Blackpool Tower on the nearside stretching towards the clear blue sky. Across to the right, the tide had crept in and the sea was still and silvery, the horizon clearly pencilled in.

Donaldson thought briefly about his earlier meeting with Henry Christie, who was obviously still reeling from Kate's death. It was early days and Henry, though often brittle at the best of times, was pretty resilient. He'd come out the other side, Donaldson guessed. Hoped.

They hit another set of lights at New Bonny Street. At the next set, Chapel Street, Bill would turn left and loop around to the lower ground floor of the police station to drop Donaldson off at the public enquiry desk. Then Bill would head back to the stake-out area and hope something would happen.

Donaldson yawned and stretched. The lights seemed to stay red for ages. He turned his head lazily to the left, rolling his neck muscles, and he looked slightly back over his shoulder.

As the lights turned green and Bill, who happened to be at the front of the line of traffic, moved the Vauxhall forwards, Donaldson suddenly shot upright.

‘That's one of them,' the American uttered, craning his neck as he tried to keep track of the youth.

‘What?' Bill said.

‘One of the two we're after.'

‘You certain?'

Donaldson shot him a withering look. ‘Pull in here, let me out – and get on your radio. Let everybody know we somehow missed them leaving the flat.'

Bill swerved, mounted the kerb. ‘I'm coming too. We need to keep in touch somehow.'

Donaldson was already out, walking briskly back to the lights about fifty metres away, his senses, his instincts, whirring. Bill scuttled behind him, abandoning the car with three wheels on the pavement, causing a slight blockage on the prom.

Donaldson weaved through a sea of day trippers and holiday-makers, all of whom seemed to be walking in the opposite direction to him. All of a sudden he had a flashback. Just for an instant he was transported back a few years, to that time when, on foot in Barcelona, he was chasing a terrorist. Although Blackpool was no Barcelona, then as now, the streets had been crammed with people. On that occasion he'd been pushing against the tide of bodies washing up Las Ramblas like a human tsunami and today he was on Blackpool promenade. A culture away – but still the same fear stalking the streets.

He paused briefly on the kerb at New Bonny Street, remembering to check right before stepping out. His conditioning, even after more than a dozen years of UK living, was to glance left for vehicles first.

He rushed across to the central reservation, then diagonally across from there, striding purposefully towards the town centre, a large amusement arcade on his left. Bill was a few paces behind, gabbling into his PR to alert people to the change of events. He had no details as yet.

Bill was shocked when Donaldson stopped, turned quickly and dragged him up to the building line, hissing, ‘No radios now – unless it's covert.' Meaning hidden, able to be used without anyone realizing. Which Bill's wasn't. He was holding the PR up to his mouth as he transmitted and it was as large as a house phone, so no discretion there. ‘If we catch up and he spots us and we spook him, it's game over. Could be game over anyway,' Donaldson said bleakly.