Instinct (15 page)

Maybe the blood meant nothing anyway, and for a moment he felt a little foolish declaring the seat a crime scene.

The passenger list was nothing special, and nothing struck him as odd. And there was no way of telling which passenger sat in which seat because seats on this flight were not allocated to individuals. Boarding was a free for all, where everyone scrambled for seats.

He sat back and pondered. Blood on a seat. So what?

Then his heavily lidded eyes glanced up at the TV monitor affixed high in one corner of the room, permanently tuned into a twenty-four-hour Spanish news channel. Headlines scrolled across the bottom of the screen as newscasters relayed stories above. The sound was muted  . . . but Delgado jumped off his chair, crossed to the TV and stood right in front of it, willing the news loop to come round again. For once, news of a Real Madrid signing was of no interest to him.

It came and suddenly Delgado realized he might have something to throw into the pot in the hunt for a major terrorist. Even if he was wrong, he knew he had a duty to reveal what he had. First he would check all international police bulletins on the computer in his own office. Then, even if there was nothing on them, he would still make the phone call.

The image on the TV screen behind DCI McMullen was paused. He said, ‘This is security footage of the passengers going through Liverpool passport control. As you know in this day and age, with on-line booking and check-in, travellers carrying only hand luggage don't have to queue at check-in desks any more, not on these budget airlines, anyway. They just take their self-printed boarding passes and passports to immigration, which get scanned into the system, and then they're through into the departure lounge after security checks.' He paused and surveyed the faces of the three men, got little response, so carried on. ‘Obviously I knew a bit about what happened at Blackpool, but there wasn't a full APB out, so there was nothing about border controls at the time of this flight out.' He sounded guilty, but didn't have to. Proper circulations took time. ‘When the Spanish detective got through to me, that was only when I really had a proper delve into anything. The thing is, with on-line check-in, it means that passengers can leave it to the last minute to arrive, or turn up hours before. They're not obliged to turn up just within the two or three hour pre-flight time any more. And, of course, there are lots of flights leaving, so people coming through passport control could be there for any one of a dozen flights.'

FB waved his hand. ‘We get the picture.'

‘OK,' McMullen said ‘– anyway, what I've done is got the passenger list from the airline, then cross-checked with the boarding card and passport database and I now know the exact time every passenger on last night's flight to Las Palmas went through security here in Liverpool. I've gone through CCTV footage and watched every person go through, all two hundred and fifty-eight of them, to be exact. Quite a task, I might add.'

Freakin' hero, Donaldson thought.

‘So, I've got this  . . . this guy, wearing a peaked cap which more or less hid his face from the cameras without it being too obvious he was hiding it, is the only Asian on the flight. All the rest are the great unwashed out for a lager-fuelled holiday. He seems to be travelling alone, one piece of hand luggage – and that's it.'

He pressed a switch on the TV remote and the screen came to life, showing a baseball-cap-wearing man approaching the desk at which boarding cards were scanned. He had a small bag over his left shoulder and his travel documents in his left hand. His right arm was held tightly up to his ribcage and hardly moved. He passed his self-generated boarding card over, that being a barcode printed on a piece of A4 paper, which was scanned by the official and handed back to the man, who then walked on, the whole interchange lasting about twenty seconds at most.

The efficiency of modern travel, Donaldson thought. Ripe for terrorists, despite all the crap about heightened security.

The screen then chopped to the next shot: the man passing through security. Placing his bag on the conveyor belt that ran through the X-ray machine, then walking through the body scanner without setting it off. He collected his bag then walked out of shot into the departure area. All the time, his right arm was held against his body, but not in a way that would have brought any attention to him. It was only watching it now that it looked odd, and each man watching the screen knew the reason why.

McMullen flicked off the screen.

Donaldson's mouth was dry, every pulse beating.

‘He boarded the Las Palmas flight fifteen minutes later, then made it through their customs at the other end unchallenged – then gone!'

Donaldson said, ‘Passport?'

McMullen picked up a piece of paper. ‘Seems to be a genuine British passport in the name of Ali Karim. I have the details here. I'm getting it checked now. Question is – is that your man?'

‘It is. That's Jamil Akram,' Donaldson said.

‘Can you be sure?' Beckham said. ‘Those images are not completely clear.'

‘It is,' Donaldson said dully. ‘We need to check the booking,' he said, thinking out loud, ‘see where it originated from, how long it had been made for, whose computer it was made from. And the passport.'

‘We wouldn't be here if it wasn't for the cop in Las Palmas. He did well,' McMullen said. ‘Followed his instinct.'

‘Did his job, you mean?' Donaldson said.

‘Whatever,' McMullen said, seeing he wasn't going to get much praise or anything from these three. Fact was, a top-class terrorist had escaped right under their noses by simply walking into an airport and jumping on to a flight. No one was feeling good about that.

‘He must have started to bleed again on the plane,' FB said. ‘He must be in real pain.'

‘And now he's made it to the Canary Islands – but he won't be there for long,' Donaldson said. ‘I'll lay odds he's already gone.' His lips pursed and he felt a dark shadow in his brain as his mind juggled all the angles. Some had already been mentioned, such as the origin of the passport and backtracking the on-line booking. Everything would have been in place for Akram to get out of the UK quickly, the only complication was that he – hopefully – still had a bullet in him. It was therefore vital to discover who helped Akram in the hours between him escaping from the car park, getting Rashid Rahman to take over the car, and walking into Liverpool Airport. It was a window of over eight hours.

‘Guys,' McMullen said. ‘The plane he was on is due to land back here any time now. The seat he sat in and the two next to it have been kept free  . . . would you be interested in having a look?'

‘Can we also get CSI to have a look?' Donaldson asked. ‘Get a sample from the blood, check for prints  . . . if anything it could help us get Akram's DNA – which would be good.'

‘Grande latte, wet, extra hot, skinny, decaff,' Henry said to the barista at Starbucks, ‘and a normal, small latte, too, and a couple of those iced buns,' he added. He was in the short queue in the coffee shop, his eyes constantly checking out the woman he'd arranged to meet.

He paid for and collected the drinks and the buns on a tray and ferried them across to Alison at the small circular table she had managed to snaffle by the window. He slid the mugs and food off the tray, then propped it up next to the window.

‘Sorry about the food,' he said. ‘Major peckish.'

‘Me too. Shopping's hell. I heard your order, by the way,' she grinned. ‘You obviously spend too much time in coffee houses.'

‘It's become a habit I don't seem capable of breaking. Costing me a small fortune.' He took a sip of his extra hot coffee, which wasn't that hot, but tasted good. He had always subsisted on the kick of coffee, it had sustained him through many a long inquiry, but now he was a little bit addicted to it and lurking around cafes, alone. It felt a bit shameful, like frequenting brothels, but less fun.

Alison sipped hers, her eyes shining across the rim of her mug. ‘Well, here we are.'

‘Mm.' Henry wiped his lips. ‘Yep – here we are.'

He had literally no idea what to say to this lady.

‘You never called or came to see me,' she said. It wasn't spoken in a belligerent way, just factual.

‘I thought it better not to. For personal and professional reasons.'

Her brow furrowed.

‘The personal reasons may have skewed professional judgement, so I thought it better to delegate and let others reach conclusions, maybe with a few nudges from me.'

So he knows, she thought wildly.

Henry drank more coffee. It wasn't hot at all any more.

‘I'm so sorry about your wife,' Alison said.

Henry opened his mouth to say something but no words came out. Instead, he heated up from the neck and felt slightly nauseous. In the end, he half-shrugged and drank more coffee, the flow of which took away the sickly sensation. She reached across and laid her cool fingertips on the back of his hand, genuine tenderness in her eyes.

Henry knew that Alison had lost her husband a few years earlier in Afghanistan where they had both been serving in the armed forces, she as a medic. On leaving the forces she had bought the Tawny Owl pub in Kendleton, where she lived with her husband's daughter from a previous marriage, and they ran the place between them.

Hesitantly his hand covered hers. He puffed out a long sigh that ended with a chuckle. ‘What a pair,' he said. ‘Us, I mean  . . . not  . . .'

‘Henry,' she said solemnly, ‘talk to me. Say what you need to say about you and Kate. Unload – because I get the feeling that so far it's all still bottled up inside.' She paused, her eyes searching for acknowledgement of this truth – which she got when his eyes refused to meet hers. ‘I won't judge you,' she promised. ‘I'll listen, nod, ask questions and then, when you've finished, maybe we can possibly think about us. What do you say?'

He squinted, then said weakly, ‘I'm not sure where to begin.'

‘We'll find a place,' she said, but was cut short by Henry's mobile, the ringtone of which he'd changed for another Rolling Stones' intro:
Miss You
. He almost rolled his eyes at the corny pathos.

‘Sorry,' he said and answered it, stating his name. He listened and grunted, then said, ‘Fifteen minutes,' and hung up. ‘Really sorry, Alison, got to go. I'm investigating a murder. Got a suspect in custody.'

‘OK,' she said sadly. They looked at each other for a few lingering seconds before she found the courage to say, ‘I'm booked into the Hilton for the night  . . .'

Donaldson leaned over and looked at the bloodstain on the aircraft seat, then turned to the air stewardess who had been on the flight out and who recalled the quiet passenger wedged into the seat. She seemed to quake slightly as Donaldson's eyes took her in and she gasped as she responded to his question.

‘Yes, I remember him. This was my section of the plane.' Donaldson watched her mouth and eyes as she spoke and also saw redness creeping up her neck. ‘He  . . . he  . . . er  . . . actually didn't move once. He didn't buy anything, no, he did, sorry, a bottle of water. Otherwise just pulled his cap down and slept  . . . now I see why.'

‘You've been a great help. Thank y'all, ma'am.' He purposely switched on the Yankee twang and the OTT politeness. He had only just learned, maybe in the last eighteen months or so, the effect he had on women, many of whom virtually swooned in his presence. ‘Can you tell me anything more about him?'

‘No, not really. It was a fairly late flight and quite a few passengers just tucked in and slept.'

‘OK, that's great.' He treated her to his best lopsided grin, which made her pupils expand with a blood rush and sent a tremor all the way through her. She turned and walked unsteadily down the centre of the plane, wafting herself with her hands.

Shuffled behind Donaldson, FB and Beckham were both looking at the blood. Donaldson's winning smile morphed into a bitter line as he looked at them. ‘What is it now?' he pondered. ‘Well over twenty-four hours gone? He walked straight on to a plane at an airport not fifty miles from where he'd been operating, unchallenged, wounded, using a false passport f'Christ's sake. Disembarks four hours later and two thousand miles south, and he's vanished. Fuck!' He looked squarely at Beckham. ‘This operation could have gone so much better.'

‘I'll let you into a secret,' Beckham retorted, ‘this was one of half a dozen anti-terror operations that happened in the UK yesterday, one of over three hundred each year  . . . you can't expect—'

Donaldson cut him off. ‘But this was the real deal. We ended up with two real live suicide bombers. One dead, one in custody.
Real deal
.'

FB stepped in. ‘We still have things. The flat, for one, which might reveal something, and a body to sweat. There's every hope he'll talk.'

‘Oh, he'll talk,' Donaldson said. ‘I'll make certain of that.'

What Donaldson didn't see was the expression on Beckham's face as he turned away from the American, an expression that said, ‘Oh no you won't.'

‘What's so urgent it couldn't wait? I said I'd be back, or didn't you pick up your messages?' Henry demanded of Rik Dean, who looked hurt by Henry's sharpness.

‘Uh, sorry, boss  . . . it's Mark Carter.'

‘And?'

‘He won't speak to Martin or Ray  . . . say's he'll only speak to you.'

‘Look, I didn't kill her,' Mark said, voice stressed.

‘Right,' said Henry, unimpressed.

‘But, like I said, we did, y'know, screw  . . . you're going to find my stuff inside her, can't deny that.'

‘Can't deny how bad it will look for you, either.'

They were in an interview room within the boundaries of the custody suite. Mark had been processed and had opted for the services of a duty solicitor, who sat alongside him, facing Henry and Rik across the table. The tape and video recorders were running.