by Chris Simms
CHAPTER 17
As Jon settled into his seat, he could hear a hum of voices coming from the meeting room next door. It sounded pretty animated in there. He started going over his notes once again, knowing it was likely his findings would be kicking off the meeting.
Around him, colleagues were pulling up chairs, low conversations rippling about.
‘Right, quiet everyone! I want to get going on this.’ The man who’d spoken was DCI Pinner. He had short, grey hair that had thinned on top. Though he appeared about fifty, he had the hungry, slightly intense look of a fitness fanatic about him. Hill running or something similarly horrible, Jon suspected.
DCI Pinner and DCI Weir jointly managed the branch of the CTU Jon was in. To go above them, you’d have to travel to the main office, located in the headquarters of Greater Manchester Police, over in Central Park.
‘First things first,’ Pinner said. ‘An update on the situation in Afghanistan. We received word about an hour ago: the surface-to-air missile should be secured very soon. It’s been tracked to an industrial storage facility. They’re going in some point in the early hours, Afghan time. That’s about eleven in the evening here. Right, DC Spicer, isn’t it?’
Jon nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Away you go, then.’
‘Thanks.’ A table-full of faces was looking in his direction and, to Jon’s surprise, he felt his heart flutter. He tried to use the trick of focusing on a point just above their heads, but more officers were standing behind the seated ones. ‘As you know, I’ve been following-up on the mystery man who fled the scene of the RTA.’ He looked down at his notes. ‘It was possible he’d made his way past a secluded parking spot frequented by prostitutes and their punters. It now seems that, despite being injured, he commandeered a vehicle that had stopped there.’ He glanced up. ‘Basically, he dragged the driver out at knifepoint and forced the working girl to drive him from the scene.’
‘Carjack and kidnap,’ someone said with a whistle.
‘That woman we only know as Kelly. Now, it could well be he’s holding her hostage: I’ve checked the system and no female’s come forward to report being involved in a carjacking.’
‘She wouldn’t, would she?’
Jon recognised Hugh Lambert’s voice, but couldn’t actually see the man. ‘True,’ he replied. ‘I also left my number with a girl she chats to, but there’s been no sign of her back on the street so far, either.’
‘And the car?’ DCI Pinner asked. ‘The one that was taken?’
‘A brand new red Porsche Cayenne. It belongs to a fairly well-known footballer.’
Several people immediately asked who that was.
Jon checked his notes. ‘Wilfred Iwobi.’
Voices – and several guffaws of laughter – broke out. A Bolton United supporter was swiftly identified and mocking comments started raining down on him. The man sat, red-faced, head shaking slowly. ‘Dirty bastard. Scores with prossies, but not on the pitch.’
Pinner let it continue for a few more seconds. ‘Right, you’ve had your fun, now shut it!’ He looked about. ‘First, we find that Porsche. Second, we start taking this thing a tad more seriously. That means extra man-power out in the field and extra support back here. Personally, I like the sound of this mystery man less and less. As you’re aware,’ he nodded at the end wall, ‘DCI Weir’s heading up another team looking into the dead driver; let’s keep lines of communication across the office open. OK, more on the items recovered from the crash scene. Nick?’
‘Yup,’ DI Hutcher replied. ‘All the footage from the drone’s camera has now been analysed and, from the locations that have been indentified, they drove out along the M56 and A55 into north Wales. That’s a long way just to find a quiet spot for some flight training, which is what the early footage suggested. The final few minutes are of a stretch of coast on Anglesey. It’s within a few kilometres of the Wylfa Nuclear Power Station.’
Jon glanced about; concerned looks were being exchanged around the room.
‘Wylfa closed down in 2015,’ Nick continued. ‘It’s now described by the outfit in charge as being in the ‘defuelling phase’. That means there’s still a lot of nasty shit on site – in the reactors and in reactor safe-stores. Interestingly, since it officially closed, security levels have been reduced to the legal minimum. In essence, that’s a few unarmed civilian guards.’ He looked over at Pinner.
‘Thanks Nick. There were also some handwritten additions to the map recovered from the vehicle. That’s come back in. Turns out, it’s a Caucasic language, found only in the mountainous area in the south of Chechnya. This area is where many of the worst attacks on Russian military came from. The fighting was particularly vicious, and required Russian Paratroopers to take the Chechen soldiers on.’
Jon thought about the comments made by the passenger from the Interceptor: how the man had somehow regained his feet, despite all his injuries.
‘We’ve sent the image we have of him upstream. MI6 will liaise with their contacts to see if anyone recognises this bloke. As I said, I’m liking the sound of him less and less. Lastly, we’ve got the mobile found on the RTA fatality. Hugh? What have you got?’
Lambert, who’d been lurking somewhere behind Jon, stepped round to the end of the table and raised a print-out. ‘OK, there were over two-hundred contacts in his address book, but many of them show no recent activity. Of the numbers he has been calling recently, fourteen feature over five times. Most of these appear to be business contacts – catering managers at educational establishments, for example. There were also private numbers for three people: a Nigel Parrit, an Elissa Yared and a – ’
Jon’s lower back muscles twitched as he went upright in his seat. ‘What was that second one?’
Lambert paused. ‘You what?’
‘Sorry to butt in; the second name you read out.’
The other officer dragged his eyes back to the print out. ‘Elissa Yared.’
Jon turned to DCI Pinner. ‘That’s the niece of Bilal Atwi. She’s already been interviewed by a detective in DCI Weir’s team.’
‘And the last name I was about to read out,’ Lambert said wearily, ‘is another relative who’s also – ’
‘But she lied,’ Jon said, getting to his feet and moving towards the door, eyes on his DCI. ‘Can I get the detective who interviewed her in?’
Pinner spread both palms. ‘Looks like you already are.’
Hugh Lambert stared at Jon’s back, his report now hanging uselessly at his side.
The man’s low voice was little more than a whisper. ‘I don’t believe this, Howie. Bloody Cottage pie. Again.’
‘Really?’ Howie swivelled in his chair. By pushing hard at the edge of the desk, he rolled himself right across the smooth floor of the Operations Office to the table beside the door. ‘Cottage pie is my favourite.’
‘No way? Your favourite?’ The older man left the lid open. ‘You can have mine, then.’
Inside the hotlock was a stack of tinfoil containers, their edges folded over waxed paper lids that were marked, CP. Hot, moist air rose into his face as he peered in. ‘Lovely.’
His colleague had returned to his station. ‘What a whiff,’ he quietly sighed.
Two monitors were slightly angled in to make a shallow V across the desk. On the left one, Anglesey formed the centre-point of a satellite image. The weather systems surrounding the island were being continually updated. As it had been for days, the Irish Sea was calm. Inland, some light cloud lay across the higher parts of the Snowdonia National Park. The immediate risk of weather-related incidents was negligible. The other screen was filled by words and numbers; a long range weather forecast that detailed the likely temperature and direction of any wind, along with its speed. Again, there was no cause for concern.
As he often did when the weather was warm, the Prince contemplated his younger brother out in Afghanistan. How hot would it be over there? A lot more than here in Wales, he thought. That was for sure.
‘What’s the difference?’
‘Cottage pie should be topped by a layer of sliced potato. Like tiles on a cottage. And it’ll be beef. Shepherd’s pie is lamb, with mash on top.’
‘Such good breeding.’
Turning the fork round, he broke through the fluffy layer into pink sloppy mush dotted by bright green peas. ‘Oh yes.’
‘Gives you rank farts, that dirge.’
‘Like I care,’ he said, starting to shovel it into his mouth.
The other man watched him with a bemused expression then shook his head. ‘The finest education Britain can buy – and look at you.’
Cheeks bulging, he grinned back.
‘What’s the pudding, can you see?’
He lifted the lid and peered in once more. ‘SCC?’
‘Sponge cake and custard? Sponge cake and custard!’ He pumped a fist. ‘Get in!’
A klaxon started up and both men turned to a different monitor. On the wall, a whiteboard outlined the Search and Rescue team’s roster for the next four weeks. Each person’s nine shifts per month as First Standby were written in red. Shifts started at 19:00 hours and lasted through to that time the next day.
Footsteps pounded out from the rest lounge and across the corridor. Dan, radar operator for the current First Standby crew, shoved his head into the Operations Office. ‘Scores on the doors, Howie?’
He placed his meal alongside the hotlock. Beside him, the printer had already started to chatter. ‘Coming through.’
Dan looked over at the other man. ‘Whispering-Bob? Any likely changes to current conditions?’
‘Fine and clear,’ he murmured. ‘As per.’
Howie tore the sheet of paper off the printer and thrust it at the radar operator, who snatched it from his hand.
‘Cheers!’ Dan’s footsteps faded.
As the klaxon bleated on, Howie crossed into the rest lounge and walked over to the windows that looked out across the runway. The crew were going over pre-take off checks on the Sea King helicopter, assisted by several ground engineers. Dan, the rad-op, came into view, head down as he scanned the print-out. Satisfied their on-board fuel load was sufficient for the mission, he waved away the ground engineer holding a pump-hose.
With a long-sigh, Howie turned round and surveyed the room. Half-finished drinks. Open newspapers. Semi-completed crosswords. All the signs of hasty abandonment.
Not long, he thought, until my next shift as First Standby starts.
CHAPTER 18
In the dim light of the corridor, Elissa got slowly to her knees and raised both hands. ‘Friend? I’m a friend. Yes?’
The point of the blade was so close to her face, she couldn’t have focused on its tip, even if she tried. Instead, she sought out his eyes, realising words alone weren’t going to convince him. It hadn’t occurred to her he wouldn’t speak English.
He looked at the piece of paper again. His face was haggard and strained. She wondered how he could cope; his left shoulder was almost certainly dislocated and that alone would be enough to send most people desperate with pain.
She tried again, pressing a finger to the base of her throat. ‘Me? Friend.’ She pointed the finger at him. ‘You? Friend. Yes?’ She nodded slowly. ‘Yes?’
His eyes touched on her then returned to the piece of paper once more. Unsure of exactly what to write, she’d decided not to bother with words. Maybe, she thought, the simple picture I drew has just saved my life.
He adjusted his grip on the knife, freeing a forefinger so he could hook out a roll of insulation tape from his back pocket. Using his teeth, he pulled a length free then gestured at her hands.
He wants to tie me, she thought, pressing the insides of her wrists together. She lifted her hands up to him. He attached tape across the backs of her wrists then looped it round several times. Ripping more tape free, he repeated the process. Then he waved the knife towards the room at the corridor’s end.
As she struggled to her feet, she thought something made a bumping noise from beyond the closed door he was standing in front of.
Edging carefully past him, she walked slowly into a sparsely furnished front room. Typical Uncle Bilal, she thought. Nothing’s changed from when he showed me round.
Then, to her surprise, she saw a TV and Xbox in the corner. A broadband router was on the windowsill. When he appeared, he was holding her bag. She waited for him to point at the sofa before she sat. Dumping the hold-all on the coffee table, he lowered himself into the armchair, wincing as he did so. Once he’d undone the zip, he placed the knife on the table, took out a photo and examined it. After a few seconds, he sent her a questioning look.
She tipped her head to show she couldn’t see the image. He rotated the frame to reveal her parents. ‘That’s my – ’ She stopped. Nursing kids in the A & E department who spoke no English had taught her a few tricks. ‘Mama, Papa.’
A stillness seemed to come over him as he stared at the image. Then he put it to one side and removed the other photo. She was about to say his name when he said, ‘Brat?’
‘Brother,’ she said uncertainly. Is that what he’d just said? Surely, the family resemblance was obvious. She directed her hands at the photo of her parents. ‘Mama, Papa.’ She pointed at herself. ‘Elissa.’ Then she pointed at the photo in his hands. ‘Tarek.’
He placed the photo on top of the other. After rummaging through her clothing, he studied her for a second. ‘Bilal?’
‘Bilal?’ she sat forward. ‘Uncle. He’s my uncle.’
His face was blank.
God, she thought. How do I explain this? She looked around. There was a pen on the narrow mantle piece above the gas fire. She nodded at it and mimed writing. ‘I get?’
He gave a nod, knife back in his hand.
OK, she thought, getting to her feet. Careful to move slowly, she plucked the biro from where it lay. Paper, she thought. Where’s some bloody...the instruction booklet for the Xbox was lying on the floor. She bent down and picked it up. Back in her seat, she turned the booklet so the blank back cover was facing up. I hope he understands a family tree, she thought.
Her hands were starting to throb, veins bulging with trapped blood. Clumsily, she wrote the words, ‘Mama, Papa’ before joining them with a wobbly line. She intersected that line with two vertical ones and wrote ‘Elissa’ at the end of one and ‘Tarek’ at the end of the other. From the word ‘Mama’, she drew a horizontal line and at the end of that wrote ‘Bilal’. Below that, she drew a short vertical line and at the end of it wrote, Feiz Atwi.
She turned the booklet round and slid it towards him.
Cautiously, he lowered his eyes.
‘Uncle Bilal’ she whispered, watching him trace the tip of the knife down to Feiz Atwi.
The knife moved back across, coming to a stop over her brother’s name. He glanced up. ‘Tarek. Brat?’ Urgency had lifted his voice.
‘Brother, yes. My brother.’
‘Tarek Yared? Kunduz? Medics Interna...’ he wrestled with the word.
‘International, yes! Medics International. Doctor.’
‘Boom!’ he said, bunching a fist then splaying his finger out. ‘Boom!’
‘Yes. He died.’ She bowed her head to wipe a tear from her cheek.
Next moment, the knife appeared inches from her face. She lifted her chin.
He was before her, gesturing at her hands with the blade. Tentatively, she lifted them and, with sharp, decisive movements, he sliced through the tape.
‘Thank you,’ she said, rubbing at her fingers. ‘Thank you.’
He backed away to the armchair and retook his seat. Knife still in his hand, he cupped his left elbow and examined the back of the instruction booklet again.
Her fingers were tingling as she peele
d the tape away, fine hairs from her wrists coming away with it. ‘Shoulder,’ she said and waited for him to look up.
She turned her left shoulder inward then pointed at his. ‘Shoulder.’ She contorted her fingers, twisted her wrist and made a wrenching noise at the back of her throat.
He stared back, admitting nothing.
‘I.’ She pointed at herself. ‘Medic.’
‘Medic?’ His dark eyebrows lifted. ‘D – doctor?’
She shook her head. ‘Medic. Nurse? I fix.’ She hunched her left shoulder, gripped it with her right hand and returned her shoulder to its normal position. ‘Fix.’
His eyes lit up. ‘Postavit na mesto moyo plecho?’
I’m sure he’s speaking Russian, she thought. But he doesn’t look Russian.
‘Vy mozhete eto sdelat?’ he added. ‘Da?’
Now, she realised, comes the awkward bit. She pinched her collar with a thumb and forefinger, mimed lifting her top over her head and immediately pointed at him.
He gave an eager nod and stood. ‘OK.’ But his eyes started to roll and a hiss of air escaped from his clenched teeth as he tried desperately to lift his left elbow.
When his legs started to buckle, she touched his arm. He stepped quickly away from her, eyes refocusing. Snipping at the air, she looked at the kitchen doorway. ‘Scissors?’
He shook his head, raised the knife to the base of the V neck collar and cut through the material like it was made of tissue. Once through the hem at the bottom, he wriggled his right arm out of the sleeve, slid it off his left arm and cast it aside.
She felt her eyes widen. Beneath a thick layer of black hair, his torso was dotted by scars. Two especially thick welts ran across his right pectoral and down his ribs. The tight skin of his abdomen was puckered in two places. Those are gun-shot wounds, she realised, as her eyes went to his left shoulder.