Instinct (6 page)

‘OK – for your ears only. The two men – lads really – that you've been told to pull in have just recently returned from an extended trip to Yemen. They've been on extensive training and indoctrination courses.'

‘Brainwashing?'

‘Fundamentalism  . . . so, yeah, brainwashing. Also probably trained to use a variety of weapons and how to make bombs.'

Bill swerved at this revelation like a cat had just leapt in front of the car. ‘They didn't quite tell us that.'

‘No.' It was a wistful word.

‘So really they've told us fuck all.'

‘Because if it comes to nothing, it'll all be played down  . . .'

‘Which is why it has to look like a routine stop-check.'

‘And if something is found, then they'll be whisked down to Paddington Green police station in London and interrogated.'

‘Interviewed, you mean?' Bill said.

‘Interrogated.'

‘OK.' Bill got the less than subtle hint. ‘So they've been trained – does that answer why you're here, Karl?'

‘Do you recall the bombing of the American Embassy in Kenya in 1998?'

Bill scratched his balding dome. ‘One of many, but I recall it.'

‘A guy named Jamil Akram is one of the principal bomb-makers affiliated to certain terrorist organizations. First made his name making car bombs, more recently he's been mass producing body packs for suicide bombers. Also a weapons expert, particularly small arms.'

‘And your interest is?'

‘He had a major hand in that embassy bombing – with others, of course. I lost two good friends in that blast and I don't forget easily.' His voice became brittle.

‘And somehow he's connected to these guys today?'

‘In Yemen they were at a camp at which Akram is known to be a facilitator. The thinking is, I guess, although I can't be sure, that something will be uncovered by arresting these two today that will lead us closer to Akram. Nailing him, even with a missile fired from a drone, would be a major scalp, one which MI5 would like to claim for their own.'

The door opened as Henry and Rik walked up the pathway to the house. The woman standing there, maybe only in her late thirties, looked haggard and exhausted, a tatty dressing gown wrapped tightly around her, hair scraped and pinned carelessly back.

‘I know you're the police,' she said shakily.

Henry flipped out his warrant card to confirm her suspicion. ‘Mrs Philips, I'm Detective Superintendent Christie from the Force Major Investigation Team and this is Detective  . . .'

Her face froze in an expression of horror. She had been able to recognize that two plain clothes cops were at her door, but when the first one introduced himself and stated his rank  . . . that was when she knew, and it was as if an invisible weight had struck her. She sagged, swayed, her hand sliding down the door jamb. Henry lurched forwards to catch her before she hit the ground.

‘You're going to be bored,' Bill said to Donaldson. They were parked up in a street about half a mile away from where the targets had their flat, the street on which their car was also parked. The purpose of the operation was to sit on that car, which was being observed by two cops in the back of a van, wait for the subjects to get in and drive off, then stop them in an appropriate place. Four other plain cars, each with two armed officers on board, a police dog van and a personnel carrier with six uniformed support unit officers were also placed in well thought out, discreet locations, ready to move and pounce once the target car was rolling.

There was nothing to say that the car would move that day. However, the operation would continue until it did.

Donaldson yawned, folded his arms and sank low in his seat, closed his eyes, felt his stomach rumble and said, ‘Possibly.'

‘How good do you think the Intel is?' Bill asked.

‘Hard to say.'

‘Who will have done all the legwork?'

Donaldson opened one eye and squinted through it at Bill. ‘I always thought you were the laconic type, not loquacious.'

Bill frowned, decided it was a compliment and said, ‘Thanks.'

‘And in answer to your question, I don't know. MI5, MI6, SIS, Special Branch, Counter Terrorism  . . .'

Bill was used to acting on intelligence received from unknown sources, usually crims with a grudge or a debt to repay. It was the way things were done these days, with many firewalls between informant and the officers who then acted on the information. It protected people and he guessed that in this case, the firewalls were pretty much impregnable. He yawned, too. Then said, ‘Not much of an Asian population around here.'

‘No, but plenty of white holiday-makers,' Donaldson replied and snapped open his eyes as a horrible thought struck him.

Clare Philips was a single mother and Natalie, as far as Henry knew from the information on the MFH file, was her only child. Henry didn't like to stereotype, but there was no doubt that Ms Philips was of a sort he had encountered many times during his service. Not that she was a bad woman, simply a victim of upbringing and circumstance. She lived alone in a tiny council house on Shoreside estate, one of Blackpool's most deprived areas. She was unemployed, survived on benefits, shoplifting, some part-time piece work – as evidenced by the hundreds of pairs of shoes stacked precariously in the living room that she was lacing up – and had had a succession of crappy boyfriends. The last characteristic was Henry's own guess, but he'd be happy to lay down money – ‘a pound to a pinch of shit' – it was true. A series of feckless men who used her for one thing only, and he could see she was a good-looking lady behind the rather haggard face that she presented that morning.

But none of that mattered.

What was important was that it was almost certain she had lost a daughter. And no doubt it was a daughter she loved with all her heart.

‘I'm truly, truly sorry,' Henry said gently.

Clare was sitting on the battered settee, staring blankly but disbelievingly at a photograph of Natalie. Rik Dean came in from the kitchen and handed her a mug of milky tea, laced with sugar. She took it absently.

‘The thing is,' Henry went on, ‘although the body we have found fits Natalie's description, we can only be certain after formal identification.' Clare nodded. ‘That means you, Clare.'

‘I know.' She swallowed. Her eyes were ringed with red. ‘When?'

‘Later today. We're not exactly sure when.'

She nodded again. Henry eased the photograph from her fingers and looked at it, a posed picture of Natalie, smiling up at the camera, wearing a grey and pink silk scarf.

Henry and Rik exchanged glances. Henry said, ‘I know this is a terrible time, but we really need to ask you some questions about Natalie and her  . . .' He was going to say ‘life', but changed the word, realizing the girl hadn't really had one to speak of yet. Instead he said, ‘Y'know, the things that were going on for her, who she knew, boyfriends if any, her mates, comings and goings. It's vital we build up a detailed picture of her.' Clare nodded numbly. ‘Can I just ask a quick question, first?' Henry indicated the photograph. ‘This scarf, was she wearing it when you last saw her? It's not mentioned in the clothing description on the Missing from Home forms.' He did not recall seeing it at the murder scene either.

‘Yes – couldn't get it off her. She loved it. I thought I'd mentioned it, mustn't have done.'

‘OK,' Henry said. ‘Is there anyone we can contact for you? Anyone to be with you?'

This time she shook her head. ‘No,' she said thinly.

Henry's chest was becoming heavy. He was on the settee alongside her, a couple of feet away, knees angled towards her, offering comforting body language. The tension in the room was incredible and he was being affected by it all. He had to breathe in, catch himself. He'd done this sort of thing dozens of times before, got through it, never let it affect him. But he found himself staring at Clare Philips, feeling her pain.

Not good. Empathy – OK. Sympathy – OK. Going to hell with the victim's mother – not OK.

He breathed out, rubbed his face.

‘Henry?' Rik asked worriedly. He'd noticed Henry's change in demeanour.

Henry gave him a wave of dismissal. He was all right now. Had almost lost it, but had yanked himself back from the abyss.

‘What I'm going to do is get someone up here for you now, OK? A family liaison officer  . . .'

‘What family?' she demanded. ‘I have no family now. She was all I had. And now she's gone.'

Henry reached across to place a hand over her nicotine-stained fingers.

‘I'm sorry,' he said, knowing the word was ineffective. ‘But one thing I promise is that I will track down whoever did this and I will catch him. It's what I do, what I'm good at.' He spouted the claim confidently, but underneath he wasn't certain he truly believed it.

His eyes blinked sadly. Henry knew she was in shock. The news had hit her like a steam hammer even though she might have been expecting it, and may well have mentally tried to prepare herself for the worst. At the moment she was being scarily calm but Henry knew grief intimately and that this stage was unlikely to last. However, she did give him a nugget when she spoke.

‘I know she had a big fall out with her ex-boyfriend,' she whispered. ‘Had some horrible rows with him.' Henry remained silent, and despite how he was feeling emotionally – on edge, likely to crumble – the old ring piece did the dance of excitement, the bum twitch that meant he was on to something. ‘It's that little shit, Mark Carter. You'll know him, I'll bet.'

As much as Henry would have liked to march out of Clare Philips's house and grab Mark Carter, who he did know, events in murder investigations rarely happened just like that. And in some respects Henry was glad he didn't rush out, because the nugget that was Mark Carter actually just became another coin in a handful of loose change as he and Rik Dean talked further to Clare.

Other names came into the frame and Henry realized that quite a few individuals needed to be interviewed very carefully, not just Mark.

Natalie's current boyfriend was one. A guy by the name of Lewis Kitchen (and at the mention of the name, Henry and Rik exchanged a knowing glance). They didn't delve at that point and they guessed that Clare possibly didn't know that Kitchen was known to the police as someone with a conviction for assaulting a female.

Next there was Natalie's real father, a lowlife called Scott Newton, again known by the detectives. He was someone who had reappeared recently in Clare's life after eighteen months inside for robbery. By Clare's own admission the ‘family' had had some violent rows and Natalie had taken her mother's side and found herself taking a slapping from a pissed-up Newton, who threatened to kill them both. He needed to be tracked down and interviewed p.d.q.

Then there was a succession of previous boyfriends – a bit of a who's who of petty crims in Blackpool – that Natalie seemed to have succeeded in upsetting by ruthlessly dumping all of them. One had bombarded her with threatening texts and indecent Facebook entries and had been stalking her.

On top of that, one of the lecturers at Shoreside College, where she attended the hairdressing course, had shown an unhealthy interest in her. Clare suspected that Natalie and this guy had had sexual relations at some stage, but Natalie had been very secretive and Clare had only discovered him by accident – by looking in her diary which had disappeared after Natalie found this out. Diaries were always useful and Henry made a mental note to ensure it was searched for thoroughly.

As she spoke, Henry realized that unless there was a quick breakthrough, this could be a long slog of an investigation.

They left the house two hours later, with Clare being attended to by a female constable until a fully fledged FLO could be briefed. Both men were ravenously hungry and Rik suggested a KFC drive-thru, to which Henry agreed; then they could eat and drink on the move, which is what they guessed they would be doing for the next few days. Might as well get used to it.

The nearest Kentucky was on Preston New Road and Henry, at the wheel of his Mercedes – which he'd been dubious about driving into Shoreside in the first place – headed off the estate in relief. All four wheels were still on it and there were no key scratches down the sides.

‘Opinions?' Henry asked.

‘Lots to go at  . . . Natalie sounds like a hot-headed promiscuous young lady who liked moving from lad to lad. We'll get a result sooner rather than later.'

Henry nodded. He did not want to get blinkered into thinking Natalie's death was definitely down to one of her circle of acquaintances, but the chances were it was. He knew he had to keep things wide open and there was still a possibility she could have been murdered by an opportunistic stranger. The fact her body was dumped out of town skewed things a little that way. However, it would all be part of his investigative strategy which he would have to work out in the next few hours. Already his mind was ticking over, relishing the prospect of concentrating on something other than self-pity.

He mulled over the things he would have to think about: location, victim, offender, scene forensics, post-mortem, and all the factors that could link them together. And the need to think logically as to what had happened, why it had happened, and who committed the crime. It was all pretty fundamental stuff for a murder investigation, but had to be done. Keep things logical, answer the questions, work the knowledge.

‘But the most important thing,' Rik said thoughtfully, ‘is whether I should have a boneless box or a two piece meal.'

‘Some things,' Henry conceded, ‘just take precedence. I'm on chicken burger and coffee.'

‘Sounds good.'

Henry eased the Mercedes into the drive-thru lane at the KFC, three cars ahead of them. When it was his turn, he came alongside the speaker and placed the order, the tinny voice of the server then read it back to him, asking if any sauces were required – yes, mayo – quoted the cost and told Henry to drive up to the window.