Critical Threat

by Nick Oldham

  Angela leaned her chin on a hand and gazed at Henry. ‘You’re the first man I’ve been with since my divorce … it was lovely, and risky. Hell of a combination.’

  She leaned back, reverting to business, not giving Henry a chance to respond. ‘If this woman in the photos turns out to be the dead one, Dave Anger will have to be informed, you know.’

  ‘Let’s establish facts, first. It would be quite nice to hand it on a platter to him.’

  ‘Last laugh?’

  ‘I’m morally above that sort of thing.’

  ‘But morally bankrupt in all other areas?’

  ‘Probably,’ he said dubiously, and the thought rocked him.

  6.15 p.m.: Preston railway station, about halfway down the west coast line between Glasgow and London Euston. A bitter wind blew down the tracks and swept along platform 4, making Henry shudder. He checked his watch, then the departure screen – his train was due to leave at 6.45 p.m. and was expected to be on time – then looked towards the station entrance.

  ‘Come on, love,’ he urged. ‘Ahh!’

  He had spotted Kate hurrying across the footbridge spanning the platforms at the northern side of the station. He dashed up the pedestrian incline to greet her. She was loaded down with luggage. He pecked her cheek.

  Over her left arm she had a zip-up suit carrier and she was pulling along a wheeled holdall, which Henry recognized as belonging to his youngest daughter, Leanne. Perched on top of the holdall, resting against the retractable handle, was a plastic carrier bag.

  ‘Hiya, sweetheart. Traffic was horrendous,’ Kate said, clearly flustered. She had been put under pressure by Henry’s request to get him some gear together and get across from Blackpool to Preston in time for his train. She took a deep breath and handed him the suit carrier. ‘Fresh suit, shirt and tie.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  He took it and the holdall.

  ‘In there is a change of clothes for now – or whenever: jeans, T-shirt, socks, trainers and undies. Obviously I had difficulty packing the undies cos they’re so huge.’ She laughed and then gave him the carrier bag. ‘In here is your leather jacket, wash bag and the book you’ve been reading, which I thought you might want for the train.’

  ‘Great,’ he said, swallowing back a bitter taste of guilt.

  ‘I’ve only got twenty mins on the car park for free,’ she told him.

  ‘In that case, I’ll get changed on the train. Fancy a quick coffee?’

  He was travelling business class at the expense of the firm, guaranteeing him a decent seat, waiter service and a bit of comfort as the Pendolino train whistled through the countryside, leaning on the curves. He sat back and tried to enjoy the journey, but his mind was awash with thoughts and feelings.

  His stupid escapade with Angela Cranlow was high on the agenda. Then the barefaced cheek at having phoned Kate to ask her to rush and bring his stuff over to Preston and realizing that she did it without a moment of hesitation, murmur of dissent or a moan. She just did it because she loved him and nothing was too much trouble. She would have travelled to the ends of the earth for him. Just because she loved him.

  He tried to get his head into the book she had thoughtfully brought along for him, a Simon Clark novel, but he couldn’t hold his mind to it.

  It might not have been one of the world’s greatest partings, but he was unable to snap the picture out of his mind of Kate waving from the platform as he boarded the train and leaned out of the window as it drew out of the station.

  ‘Bastard,’ he said to himself, knowing for certain that the liaison between him and Angela had gone as far as it was going. His problem was he always went back for more, always fell in love. This time had to be different.

  He ordered another free scotch and lemonade from a passing steward. He had declined the meal, which had not sounded appetizing, but had decided to avail himself of the free alcohol instead.

  By Crewe he was on his third whisky, feeling warm and comfortable.

  He would find somewhere to eat in London. Maybe even get room service at the hotel he’d been booked into by Angela’s secretary. He closed the book, then closed his eyes, knowing that if he fell asleep it would be impossible to miss his station, which was at the end of the line.

  The hotel, often used by cops visiting London on business and one which Henry had stayed at a few times before, was the Jolly St Ermin on Caxton Street, around the corner from New Scotland Yard. It was a big, old, comfortable place, now owned by an Italian chain but nonetheless good, though not particularly cheap.

  By the time the taxi dropped him off, he was wide awake again. After registering and then dropping his luggage off in his room and getting changed, it was just after ten and although his appetite had now deserted him, his desire for drink had not; he decided on a short walk to a half-decent pub.

  He left the hotel and sauntered up to Victoria Street, strolling along until he found something that took his fancy. He rolled into a pub called the Bag o’ Nails about ten minutes later and went straight for a pint of London Pride, which hardly touched the sides.

  In a seat by the window he watched a bit of London life go by, which wasn’t all that much different to Blackpool life, he guessed. After another pint and a bag of crisps, he stepped out to find that the bad weather from the north had tracked him.

  Hunching down into his leather jacket he hurried back along Victoria Street, the rain increasing from a heavy downpour to a torrential tropical storm, completely drenching him within seconds. It hammered down like rods of steel, even hurt his head, and he knew he was in for a first-class soaking.

  After a hundred metres he’d had enough. He ducked into a shopping precinct for cover whilst he waited for some abatement. He stood looking out, hands thrust deep into his pockets, his face a picture of pure misery. The weather seemed set for the night and he knew he would have to brave it sooner or later.

  Behind him, in the shopping centre, came the sound of chatter, laughter and cutlery and the great whiff of garlic. He glanced over his shoulder and saw a restaurant with a paved area, many people chomping merrily away. His brow furrowed as he turned slowly, his eyes taking in what he was seeing. He walked into the centre and saw it was a Spanish restaurant. He stood and inspected it, a strange, unworldly sensation overcoming him. To his right was an Italian restaurant across the concourse, again with outdoor seating, albeit protected by the fact it was inside the shopping centre.

  His head flicked back to the Spanish restaurant.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ he said out loud, and, ‘Una Cerveza por favor,’ the only Spanish phrase he knew by heart.

  Eleven

  Henry woke at 6 a.m., feeling refreshed after six hours’ uninterrupted sleep, batteries recharged. He had a long, medium-hot shower, then dressed in the suit that Kate had packed for him. He wandered down for an early, leisurely breakfast, which he scoffed with the delight of a man not picking up the tab.

  He spent the next hour sitting in the huge reception area, his ear affixed to his mobile phone, talking tactics with Angela Cranlow, who remained curiously professionally detached, which puzzled him but at the same time pleased him; maybe she was backing off. He also spoke to some members of the SPMS.

  Graeme Walling, the ex-NCIS detective now floundering in the wasteland of Special Projects, had thoroughly enjoyed himself dealing with two grisly post-mortems. He thanked Henry profusely for the opportunity and reported that the PMs didn’t tell them anything they hadn’t already surmised, but did confirm that Jackie Kippax had an advanced form of cancer of the stomach which would have given her only a few months to live. That would answer the question as to why she turned the shotgun on herself, but they would never know what was said between her and Darren Langmead, a dialogue that had died with the both of them. Walling would be spending the day doing follow-up inquiries for an inquest scheduled early next week, just for the purpose of identification. The full inquest would take place way in the future.

  ‘The pathologist
sends you her regards, by the way,’ Walling said.

  ‘Professor O’Connell?’

  ‘That’s the one. She also said to tell you she’s sorry you missed your chance, whatever that means, but there could be an opportunity to try again due to a vacancy if you wanted. Does that make sense to you?’

  ‘Yep – perfect,’ Henry said.

  He next spoke to one of the people he’d sent to Blackburn to do some digging into Darren Langmead to see if there was any truth in Kippax’s assertion that he had threatened Eddie Daley over Daley’s investigation into the alleged embezzlement from the Class Act. Nothing had come to light; neither had Eddie Daley’s computer turned up. Henry gave instructions to trace Johnny Strongitharm, the club’s owner, to find out if he had contracted Eddie to investigate Langmead.

  Lots of things were going on. His team were buzzing in a way they had never done before.

  It was amazing what a sense of purpose and a pat on the back could do.

  After the phone calls, Henry spoke to Kate, who sounded bubbly and full of life and plans. He felt dreadful as he ended the call.

  ‘So bleedin’ weak,’ he chided himself.

  He’d brought a soft leather business case with him into which he’d packed printouts of the digital photographs from Jackie Kippax’s computer, all blown up to A4 size. He fished them out and had a good long look at them. They had lost none of their sharpness on enlargement, not even the one that had zoomed in on the necklace around the woman’s neck.

  It was a very unusual pendant on the chain, he had to admit, though he didn’t know too much about this sort of thing. It had an oriental look about it, two serpents wrapped around an orchid, quite understated and expensive.

  He examined the photographs closely.

  She was definitely a beautiful woman. He had compared them to the photos of the facial reconstruction and there was a very strong likeness.

  So was she the burned corpse?

  Was she called Sabera Ismat?

  Or was this woman still alive and was he barking up the wrong tree?

  But more importantly, was there a chance of him getting one over on Dave Anger? Whilst he did not really want this woman to be dead, part of him hoped she was.

  His mobile rang.

  ‘Henry, it’s Jenny Fisher at the office.’

  Jenny with the attitude. ‘Hi, Jen, what can I do for you?’

  ‘Just an update for you … you asked me to make some inquiries about the medical qualifications of this Ismat woman?’ Henry told her to go on, which she did, telling Henry where and when Sabera got her degree, did her medical training. ‘But, guess what? She’s a Blackburn lass according to university records.’

  ‘Which fits in with the geological profile of the dead woman,’ Henry said.

  ‘Certainly does.’

  ‘Jenny, you’re a star.’

  He almost heard her purr down the line.

  The photographs were spread across the coffee table in front of him. He pulled them together with the best one on top, one just of the woman with the pretty young Asian lady in the background.

  ‘Hello, Sabera,’ he said, now feeling very confident that this trip south was worthwhile. ‘What’s your story?’ He knew there and then that she was dead. Just for good measure Henry gave a one finger salute to his mental picture of Dave Anger. ‘Swivel, you git,’ he said, picked everything up and went across to the doorman to arrange for his luggage to be stored and to get him to wave down a taxi.

  As slow as it was in the monumental traffic, travelling by cab across London was definitely great fun. Henry did not often get to London, so he looked upon it as a treat and loved seeing the sights, travelling down roads and streets he’d only ever heard of in films, TV or whilst playing Monopoly.

  As the cab turned out of Caxton Street, he caught sight of New Scotland Yard and the spinning, triangular sign which always looked bigger and far more impressive on TV. In real life it was a disappointment, as was Scotland Yard itself. Just a dull office building, squeezed in tight amongst others, with no atmosphere about it at all. Very uninspiring.

  He was driven firstly around Buckingham Palace, then generally in a south-westerly direction across the city. The next sign he recognized was Sloane Square, was amazed to see a Lamborghini dealership, then on to King’s Road and right up Sloane Avenue, cutting across Fulham Road, then across on to Old Brompton Road and he knew he wasn’t far away from Earl’s Court then. The taxi passed Brompton Cemetery, then on his right he caught sight of the towering Empress Building which he knew the Metropolitan police now leased, a far more impressive building than Scotland Yard.

  ‘Here we go,’ the cabbie said, pulling into the side of the road. ‘Empress Medical Centre.’ Henry peered through the window and saw the centre looking, as expected, exactly the same as on the website.

  He paid and took a receipt before stepping out of the cab, and watched a low-flying jumbo jet passing overhead on its descent into Heathrow to the west.

  He breathed in the London air, then looked at his target. He loved going unannounced into places, to take his chances with jobs like these, just to gauge the reactions of people not prepared for the cop-knock on their door. It was like being a cat amongst pigeons, sometimes, watching them scatter in fear.

  Or, as he said out loud to no one in particular, ‘Pig in the city.’

  The health centre was much like thousands the country over. He walked through an automatic sliding door, across a plant-adorned foyer and into the reception area, joining a short queue at the desk. The place was busy and the waiting area quite full of miserable looking people.

  As he reached the front of the queue, he wasn’t even sure what he was going to say. As usual, he was going to wing it. He produced his warrant card for the receptionist and introduced himself. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Henry Christie from Lancashire Constabulary … I wonder if I could have a word with your practice manager, please.’

  ‘Could I say what about?’

  He pushed his card into his top pocket. ‘Not really,’ he said painfully. ‘A delicate matter, police business.’

  ‘OK.’ She picked up a phone and punched in a number. ‘Helen? It’s Rachel on reception … there’s a police officer here wishing to see you … no, he didn’t say … OK.’ She hung up. ‘She’ll be along in a couple of minutes. Would you like to take a seat?’

  Henry stood browsing the notice boards, fearing for his very existence if he didn’t eat five portions of fruit and veg per day, didn’t exercise for twenty minutes, three times a week, and had erection problems. Sometimes he wished he did have the latter. An erect penis had put him in so many hairy situations.

  A pleasant looking middle-aged lady appeared by his side, smelling strongly of smoke. ‘Hello. I’m Helen Baxter, the practice manager. I hope I haven’t done anything wrong, but if I have, I don’t mind being handcuffed.’

  It was an admission that stumped Henry for a moment.

  ‘Just kidding,’ she said and tapped him on the arm.

  ‘Ha ha.’

  ‘So what can I do for you, DCI Christie, is it?’

  ‘Yes, it was an odd thing,’ Mrs Baxter – ‘call me Helen’ – was saying as she looked at the photograph Henry produced from his case. It was a close-up of the woman’s face with no one else in it. ‘She just upped and went.’

  ‘So this is definitely Sabera Ismat?’

  They had retreated to Mrs Baxter’s small office in the far reaches of the health centre and were awaiting tea. She was being helpful in a playful sort of way.

  ‘Oh yes, that’s definitely her. She came as a locum and then started running a sort of clinic/self-help group for Asian women who’d been abused. It was very popular and she was doing some good work. But to be fair, I can’t say I knew her all that well.’

  There was a knock on the door and an Asian lady came in bearing a tray of tea and biscuits.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said politely.

  ‘That’s OK, Aysha – just pu
t the tray down here.’ She pointed to a coffee table by the desk. Henry glanced at the woman and his glance turned to a squint as he recognized her as the Asian woman positioned behind Sabera Ismat in one of the photographs. She began laying out the cups and saucers.

  ‘So she just disappeared?’ Henry said, slowly taking back the photograph from Mrs Baxter.

  There was a clatter and a crash as a cup dropped on to the tray. It did not break. The tea-bearing lady said sorry and stood the cup upright on a saucer.

  ‘You can let us do the mothering,’ Mrs Baxter said.

  The young woman turned to leave and Henry watched her go, fleetingly catching her eye, seeing a troubled look on her face.

  He did the honours and poured the tea. ‘What do you know about her, then?’

  ‘Not a lot, really,’ Mrs Baxter said thoughtfully. ‘Look, what is this about?’

  ‘I just need to find her and speak to her about something. Beyond that, I can’t really tell you a lot. You understand?’

  Mrs Baxter tapped her nose. ‘Police business?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Mm, OK, let me think … she sort of came from nowhere, I suppose. Dr Khan took her on. He wanted her to start immediately as a locum, even without interview, but that’s not too unusual. Dr Khan’s one of the practice partners and what he says goes, I suppose.’

  Henry nodded. ‘Does he know what happened to her?’

  ‘He told me she’d had to deal with a family emergency. I asked him if she’d be coming back and he said he doubted it.’

  Henry nodded. ‘I need to speak to him, then, I suppose.’ He paused. ‘Do you have any employment records for her, just out of interest?’

  ‘I do.’ Mrs Baxter rose and crossed the office to a filing cabinet. She slid open the top drawer and riffled through the suspension files with her fingertips. She got to the end, then worked her way back, muttering, then started her search again. ‘Odd,’ she said, this time going slowly through the files, peering carefully at the tabs. ‘Strange … her file isn’t here … and I know I haven’t archived it.’