by Chris Simms
‘So,’ O’Dowd said, turning to DCI Sullivan. ‘You think it was Nirpal Haziq sighted over in Levenshulme?’
There was a slightly wooden quality to O’Dowd’s voice that caused Iona to look up.
‘Yes, that’s right.’ Sullivan sounded exactly the same.
Of course, Iona realized, glancing at the speaker phone. The knowledge of their voices being relayed to another location was making both men sound like bad actors.
‘We know Haziq’s parents live on Hopkins Avenue. A patrol car coming away from an incident at a betting shop on that road thinks they sighted him by the train station. He was gone by the time they’d turned the car round.’
‘How certain were they?’ O’Dowd asked.
‘Eighty per cent. Significantly, he was wearing a suit. If it’s the same one he was wearing when he ran from CityPads’ offices, he hasn’t even got access to a clean set of clothes.’
O’Dowd was looking pleased. ‘We’ll have him soon.’
‘How could he have made the journey out to Poynton?’ Iona asked quietly, not comfortable with the fact that Nirpal was their main suspect for all the murders. ‘Little cash, no car … It wouldn’t have been easy to—’
‘He could have nicked a car,’ Martin cut in.
Iona turned to him, irked by the cheerful note in his voice.
‘I suppose so. If he’s the type to know how you go about stealing one. He’s got no priors for that sort of stuff, though.’
‘That just means he’s never been caught before,’ someone else interjected.
Iona could sense the weight of opinion was against her. She could understand why: Nirpal bolting like he did was the act of a guilty person, no doubt. But was he really carrying out the killings? Believing it was him was certainly very tempting.
Whispers came from the speaker phone and O’Dowd slashed his hand for silence.
‘Hello, Superintendent O’Dowd? It’s Roger Wilson.’
‘Mr Wilson,’ O’Dowd’s head was bobbing eagerly at the lump of angular plastic. ‘Thanks for this. I realize you’ll—’
‘Don’t be thankful. I’m not sure how much help this will be.’
O’Dowd’s hopeful smile faded. ‘Well, we’ll be grateful for anything you might have. By the way, I’m here with DCIs Sullivan and Roebuck and a few of the officers on their teams.’
‘Very well. Shall I run you through the pick-up, first?’
‘Please.’
‘After receiving the call from Sravanti’s friend, we asked for the number of the mobile she’d texted her on. We then were able to ring Sravanti back and get her exact location. Just over two hours later we’d obtained permission from the authorities here to pick her up. We set off for the hotel with a police car in support.
‘As I think you know, Khaldoon Khan was tipped off we were on our way up to the room. He’d tried to drag his sister out – presumably to a new location – but she’d fought back and he was forced to flee without her.’
‘Is she OK?’ Iona had asked without thinking. ‘Sorry, Detective Khan here. Is Sravanti OK?’
‘Yes. A few lumps and bumps, but she’s fine.’
‘Did it appear anyone else was part of the operation?’ asked O’Dowd. ‘Or was it just the brother?’
‘It appears to be just the brother, why?’
‘If Khaldoon was in Pakistan for terror-related activities, would there not have been –’
‘Oh, she’s convinced the trip was in order to marry her against her will. She has not mentioned anything else. It was to be to a son from a family in the village where her parents grew up.’
‘DCI Sullivan speaking: that village is located in the tribal areas of Waziristan?’
‘Correct. She’d even been given a photo of him by the brother, Khaldoon.’
‘Why then,’ asked Sullivan, ‘did the brother flee? Is an arranged marriage attempt – if that’s the correct terminology – such a serious offence?’
‘That’s a fair point,’ Wilson replied. ‘She’d been tricked into the trip in the first place. It was, she’d been told, their last chance to visit an ailing grandmother, who, as it happens, isn’t so ill after all. Sravanti had told her brother she would get him locked up for his part in the deception.’
O’Dowd placed his elbows on the table. ‘Do you think that’s why she was there?’
‘It all seems to fit, why?’
‘We’re looking at it from this angle: Sravanti was really going to be carrying a bomb. That’s what she had come to Pakistan for.’
Wilson said nothing for a second. ‘You think she is some kind of jihadist? A suicide bomber?’ He sounded incredulous.
‘Whether she knew that was why she was there is another question.’ O’Dowd’s jaw was tight.
‘Erm, that’s … frankly, that seems unlikely to me. I’ve just spent over an hour with the girl. She’s thoroughly Westernised. The fact she was tricked into coming out here – she’s angry, upset, confused …’
‘A change of heart, maybe?’ O’Dowd said. ‘A loss of nerve? What about if the arranged marriage story was a cover the brother was using to lure her into Waziristan?’
Iona could hear it in O’Dowd’s voice; he was trying to make the facts fit the theory. The pressure of making progress with the case was skewing his judgement.
‘So,’ Wilson replied cautiously. ‘The brother first gets Sravanti out here with a sick grandmother story. He then changes it to an arranged marriage one. But really, he’s lining her up – and this is his own sister, remember – as a suicide bomber.’
‘Why run when he knew the police were coming?’ Sullivan demanded, shooting a supportive look at O’Dowd.
‘He was keeping someone against her will, for a start,’ Wilson replied calmly. ‘He just assaulted her while trying to get her out of there. Have you seen the lathis – the sticks – the police carry out here? They really like to swing those things, believe me. Khaldoon will have known that.’
O’Dowd placed a clenched fist on the table. ‘Mr Wilson, you’re not party to a lot of the information we have at this end. We have evidence to strongly indicate Khaldoon was involved in terror-related activities. So would you mind going back and questioning this girl from the angle we’re talking about? Either as a knowing or unknowing accomplice of the brother.’
They all heard the sigh come from the speaker. ‘OK, I’ll try. She’s with the embassy doctor now. Emotionally, she’s all over the place. She knows she’s shamed her family – she’s terrified now that she’s on her own. And she’s probably right.’
The door opened and Fairfield stepped into the room, a laptop in his hand. He looked at the super with raised eyebrows. O’Dowd held up a finger. There was a hectoring note in his voice as he spoke again. ‘We need to know if she has ever met an individual called Nirpal Haziq. He worked in the same office as Khaldoon. We are currently seeking Haziq in relation to several recent murders here in Manchester.’
‘Right, I’ve got that.’
‘We are also trying to locate two girls who’ve gone missing from care homes in this region. Khaldoon had only booked seats for himself and his sister on that flight, but we need to know if the sister is aware of him arranging transit for any other females recently.’
‘You think she’ll be able to answer that? I’m pretty sure she was duped into all this.’
‘Would you just ask her?’ O’Dowd’s face was going red.
‘Fine. Have you any names?’
‘We have profiles, not actual names. I’ll have the details emailed over.’
‘OK, I’ll look out for it. Anything else? I need to—’
‘That’s all, thanks.’ O’Dowd cut the call and immediately turned to Sullivan. ‘I want two officers on the next flight over to Islamabad. No way I’m leaving this with that clown. You can decide who goes. Now, DS Fairfield, what is it?’
He moved round the table. ‘CCTV from the lobby of the sheltered housing place where Libby Williams lived.’
&
nbsp; O’Dowd looked hopeful. ‘Does it show Haziq?’
‘Not Haziq. Someone, but not Haziq.’
Officers shuffled to the side so Fairfield could sit next to O’Dowd. Immediately, people were out of their seats and crowding round behind him. The acuteness of the angle Iona found herself at meant the screen was little more than shifting patterns of light.
Fairfield clicked the pad. ‘Here he is, entering the lobby at seven thirty-six, that’s eight minutes ahead of us.’
Iona’s teeth clenched. Eight minutes.
‘Now watch, see that? The bastard walks in and gives the camera his middle finger; he knew this footage would be viewed.’
O’Dowd’s elbows came down on the table with a bang. ‘Play it again.’
‘Sir?’ A detective spoke up on the far side of Fairfield. ‘Can you freeze it as he’s approaching the doors? Before he keeps his head down. I might know who that is.’
Fairfield fiddled with the keyboard and moved his hand away. The officer moved closer, regarding the screen intently. ‘I think … I don’t know. I worked for Stockport Division before here. We had a serial burglar – and that really, really looks like him. Bloke called Liam Collins. A total shitbag.’
TWENTY-EIGHT
Iona was shutting down her computer. The two officers chosen from Sullivan’s team had each gone home to hastily pack a bag. At least they can get some sleep on the flight, she thought as waves of emotion washed through her. Strongest among them was a nagging sense of doubt. The investigation just didn’t feel right. O’Dowd seemed to her more and more like a man blundering about in the dark, hands hopefully scrabbling for a light switch.
Now the theory was Haziq was working with Collins. Between them, the two men were murdering people like it was a competition between them. Iona could see Collins as a killer – a miserable childhood spent between Manchester and Blackpool, spells with foster parents and in care homes, school drop-out, long record for burglary, assault, racial abuse, ABH, GBH. He’d then kept out of trouble for almost five years, only to reappear in the old people’s home lobby, all his old defiance back.
What Iona had a problem with was someone like Haziq working with someone like Collins.
A disconsolate sigh from across the table broke her thoughts. Martin. Did he feel it, too? This impression of having taken a wrong turn, of going off track. She looked across to see his head was bowed. His green biro was balanced between his finger and thumb, waggling back and forth as he struggled over something. She was still surprised he’d chosen to move to the desk opposite her while they were working together: as the more junior officer, she’d assumed that inconvenience was coming her way.
She cocked her head. He was looking down at a copy of that day’s paper. He was on the puzzles page.
‘You any good with these things?’ he asked, glancing up once the question was out.
‘What is it?’ she replied noncommittally.
‘Su-bloody-doku. I keep having a crack at them. Always end up giving up.’
‘Which paper?’
He flipped it over to check. ‘Manchester Evening Chronicle.’
She sat up. It wasn’t like Martin to ask for help. Even if it was just a newspaper puzzle. ‘They can set quite nasty ones. Regional papers don’t, normally.’
‘You sound like an expert.’ He gave her a quick grin. ‘It’s the top row. My mum always says if you can crack one row, it all falls into place.’
She wanted to say that depended on a few other factors. ‘You realize it’s not far off three in the morning? It’d probably be quicker to wait outside the all-night garage and get today’s edition – it’ll have the answers for that one inside.’
He laughed. ‘Lateral thinking. I like it. But seriously, this’ll just bug me.’
‘Let’s have a look, then.’
He folded it over and spun it across. She stopped it with one palm, scrutinizing the numbers before her. As she suspected, it wasn’t hard. But telling Martin that would probably only dent his ego. He’d mucked it up straightaway by putting a three in at the corner. No way was that right. ‘Whoever sets these things is so sneaky.’ She pretended to agonize over it for a few seconds longer. ‘How about if you swap the three in the corner for a five? Will that help?’ She quickly completed that corner for him and passed it back. ‘Does that work?’
He looked at it for a while and eventually smiled. ‘Eight goes in on the other side. I think we’re winning. Nice one.’
‘My pleasure.’ She could feel his eyes lingering on her.
‘So, we’re checking out this care home first thing tomorrow?’
She met his eyes. ‘Yup.’
He checked around: only a few other detectives were at their desks. None was in earshot. ‘Do you think we’re wasting our time? I can’t help feeling we are.’
Now he’s confiding in me. Was it for real? ‘Why do you say that?’ she asked quietly.
He moved the paper to one side. ‘Nirpal Haziq.’
‘What about him?’
He hunched forward, voice low. ‘He doesn’t feel right to me.’
She raised her eyebrows. Then why the hell, she thought, did you cut me down back there when I raised the question of how he got to Poynton?
‘I’m sorry.’ He briefly fluttered a hand. ‘That comment in the progress meeting just popped out.’
‘Even though you also doubt he’s the person we should be looking for?’ She recalled his condescending tone when he’d spoken up. ‘You just wanted me to look clueless in front of everyone?’
‘No, I didn’t.’ His face altered slightly. ‘Well, I did a bit. But you were only too happy to make me look a twat in the offices of CityPads.’
She frowned. What was he on about?
‘When I made that joke? The woman asked where our uniforms were and I said it was a dress-down day. At which point you said not to listen to me. You were all a regular team, I was an oddball. Full of it, according to you. Remember?’
She couldn’t dredge up exactly what she’d said. Wasn’t it just banter to set the women at ease? ‘You took that to heart? Really?’
Now he looked cross. ‘Iona, this isn’t my team. I’m with Palmer, normally. The others don’t know me. You left me looking like a right prat.’
Guilt took hold. So this was what it was about. My God. Part of her wanted to laugh at how ridiculously sensitive he was being. But at least he could be sensitive, unlike so many of the blokes in the unit. She found herself looking at him in a new way. ‘Well … I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that. I thought it was just mucking about, trying to release a bit of the tense atmosphere when we all came trooping in.’
‘It was – but you didn’t need to start making me the butt of your jokes. You of all people: you know what it’s like being the new kid. Not easy, is it?’
She felt her throat tighten. That was a reference to when she’d joined the unit under DCI Wallace. Her boss who, it transpired, had done his best from the very start to make sure her career in the CTU never got the chance to even start. And all because he was racist. Probably a misogynist, too. ‘I think that was a bit different.’
‘Was it? I don’t know … I mean, the odd whisper goes round, but I’ve never really heard what actually happened between him and you.’
She started gathering her things as quickly as she could. ‘Yeah, well. It was different, OK?’ Her voice was raw and she could feel a prickling in her eyes as it all started coming back. Damn it!
‘So what did happen? Tell me.’
The tricks he’d played to turn opinion against her. She could see once again the little Blu Tack figure he’d fashioned of her. Its oversized head and tiny, pointy breasts. All her colleagues laughing as – afraid to appear like she couldn’t take a joke – she placed it on top of her own monitor. She stood, bag in hand. ‘It’s not something I want to talk about.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Home.’
‘Iona?’
The softness
in his voice drew her eyes back to his.
‘I’m not accusing you of anything. Really I’m not. You understand that, don’t you?’
With a single nod, she turned and made for the doors. She wanted him to know the truth. She wanted to describe how Wallace had dug out a newspaper clipping that mentioned the nickname from her school hockey team: The Baby-Faced Assassin. Only Wallace had pared it down to just Baby. The runt of the team. The token female, half-Pakistani, at that. Their little mascot, never to be taken seriously. Certainly never to be one of the team. Never confided in, relied on, accepted.
She was halfway across the car park when her phone started to ring. Martin’s mobile. She toyed with ignoring it. But his parting comment had – what? Showed a little empathy? Perhaps she had misjudged him. Maybe he wasn’t such a backstabber. ‘Iona here.’
‘Hey, listen, sorry if I upset you.’
‘You didn’t.’
‘You seemed pretty pissed off when you shot out the door.’
She came to a stop. ‘It wasn’t you, all right? It’s what you were talking about. It’s still hard for me, you know, to deal with it.’
‘OK, that’s fair enough. I just wanted you to know that, from what I can gather, the bloke was an utter bastard to you.’
His words brought fresh tears to her eyes. Blinking them back, she sucked in a lungful of air. It was still night, but a bird was singing somewhere. A starling or something. Fooled by the perpetual dawn of the streetlights, the thing was warbling with all its might.
‘Iona?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re still there?’
‘Still here.’ She closed her eyes. And you don’t know how much you saying that means. ‘See you bright and early.’
‘You know, Iona, us two working together? I reckon we could make quite a team.’
The pair of binoculars trained on Iona from the darkened office building on the other side of the main road were lowered. ‘I think that’s Detective Constable Iona Khan.’ The man traced his finger along the row of photo identities. ‘She’s in DCI Roebuck’s team, reporting to Superintendent O’Dowd.’