by Chris Simms
‘I was only joking. You take it, Iona. It’ll do your career far more good than mine. I’m going nowhere.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Jim. Listen, I’m going to check this with Nirpal Haziq. We’ve got him downstairs. I’ll ring you right back, I promise.’
Nirpal’s head came up as Iona stepped into the room. He’d been left to stew, just a plastic cup of water for company. He looked her up and down, clearly surprised by her appearance.
‘DC Khan.’ She took a chair on the other side of the table and looked him in the face.
His eyes cut to the CCTV camera mounted in the ceiling. Then he looked at the two-way mirror in the wall to his side. ‘So you’ve checked out the laptop, yeah? You found the credit card numbers?’
‘Nirpal. What type of carry case did you have for that laptop?’
‘You what?’
‘The carry case. What type did you have?’
He looked at the mirror, more concerned at who might be behind that. ‘Listen, I didn’t have anything to do with the murders! I never met Liam Collins. I’m a thief, all right? You got that on your tape? I’m a thief, I admit it.’
‘Nirpal, answer my question, please.’
He flicked a hand in her direction, shaking the chain that ran from the table through the handcuffs attached to his wrists. ‘I’m not talking to you, little lady.’
She stared at him, counting to ten in her head. It was a technique Jim had taught her: the power of silence.
By seven, he glanced back at her, face sullen. ‘Fucking what?’
‘You’re not talking to me.’
He jutted his chin. ‘’S’right. You can hear properly. Well done. Now send in the other guys; I told them the truth about—’
‘Would you talk to Mossad?’ That got his attention. She kept her voice very low. ‘You know who Mossad are, right? Good. They’re here, in the building. They want you. They believe you are a terrorist. Not just the killer of a few students. You’re a recruiter for al-Qaeda. A money man. They want you extradited. Will you refuse to talk to them over in Israel? When you’re down in the basement of some detention facility that doesn’t officially exist?’
She sat back and started counting to ten once more. She got to three.
‘A red nylon carry case. Made by Binto. This is all …’ He sat forward and tried to wrap his arms round his stomach. The chain clinked as it tightened. ‘Jesus, I’m scared.’
‘Was that laptop ever transported by you in any other type of carry case?’
‘No.’
‘Did you ever see any other type of carry case in the office at CityPads?’
‘No.’
‘Did you ever see Khaldoon Khan using any other type of carry case?’
His head shook.
‘Any employee at CityPads?’
‘No. We all had the same ones, all right?’
Martin parked in front of Nina Dubianko’s house. The white Range Rover was tucked away by the side of the garage. As he started to climb the front steps, the door opened and she stepped out.
She was wearing a pencil line skirt and a silky blouse. The material rippled at chest height and he had to make a conscious effort not to look down. Her blonde hair was tied back tight. She looked businesslike. Powerful.
‘Where’s Detective Khan?’
Martin’s step slowed. His hand was half-outstretched. She didn’t seem to even be aware of it. ‘Busy, I’m afraid. I came with Detective Khan on the previous visit.’
‘I remember you.’ Her eyes were searching his car. ‘I asked for her.’
He let his hand drop. ‘Miss Dubianko, we work as a team.’
Her higher position made it feel like she was looking down her nose at him. It was plainly obvious she didn’t want him here. Maybe the information was of an embarrassing or humiliating nature. Something she only wanted to share with a fellow female. He tried to sound sympathetic and warm. Like a doctor. ‘Whatever information you have, it can be delivered to me.’
She thought for a second or two then looked at her watch.
As she did so, he glanced at her breasts. Both nipples were pressing against the thin material. ‘Miss Dubianko, shall we go into the house?’ He stepped closer. ‘It’s cold out here.’
Abruptly, she turned on her heel, stepped inside and set off down a corridor towards the kitchen. ‘I have an appointment; this must be brief.’
‘That’s absolutely fine.’ He took out a notebook and pen. A line of bags were in the hallway. ‘You have information on another client of Eamon Heslin?’
‘Yes.’ She gestured to a chair that had been placed away from the dining table, near to a side door. ‘Sit.’
He obeyed her. ‘Off on holiday?’
She glanced across, cigarette already in her fingers. ‘Sorry?’
‘The luggage in the hallway. Holiday?’
‘Oh. That. Yes – a short break.’
Martin sat back, crossed his legs and gave her his friendliest grin. ‘Where are you going? A bit of winter sun, maybe?’ He could picture her in a swimsuit. One of those high-cut, plunging ones to show off her breasts and legs. Oh, yes. He could see her in one of those. Dripping with water from the pool. She lit her cigarette and he saw that her fingers were shaking ever so slightly.
‘This person who came to see Eamon.’ She took a long drag.
Martin scrabbled for his pen, not ready to take notes.
‘He has some business in the city. Restaurants.’
‘What kind?’
‘They are Turkish. That is where he is from. He, I felt, was not an honest—’
Martin caught a tiny shift of her eyes to just beyond his shoulder. They’d widened fractionally: a warning look. He twisted round. The door directly behind him was closing. A man was closing the door. Martin saw his face. Recognition sparked. Who the hell? He started to stand. ‘Sir, if you’d like to step out …’
The door suddenly swung back and the man burst through. The gap between them closed in an instant and Martin felt the dining table slam into his back. Liam Collins. It’s Liam fucking Collins. A fist came down and Martin’s vision ballooned into red. Another impact. Martin could feel his ears were being gripped. Another impact. He’s smashing my head against— Another impact. He could feel the man’s breath blasting his face. He gripped his pen in a fist and jabbed it up as hard as he could, directly at where the breath was coming from.
The pressure on his ears released. He shoved at the weight pinning him down with his arms and knees. He was beginning to see again. Liam Collins was half on the table. He was pulling the biro out from under his chin. A lot of blood followed it. Nina Dubianko was a shadowy form running for the door.
‘Call the police,’ Martin gasped, regaining his feet and trying to blink his vision clear. He groped for a chair and had begun to lift it when Liam launched himself again. They both crashed to the floor. Martin felt the chair splintering beneath him. A sharp, white pain lanced his kidneys.
He tried to get a hand up under Liam’s chin so he could force the man’s head back. Drops of blood were landing in his face and across his chest. He dug his middle finger into the man’s throat wound. Liam was snarling. Blood caused Martin’s grip to suddenly slip and Liam was able to duck his face down. He opened his mouth, clamped his teeth on Martin’s ear and started wrestling his head from side-to-side.
Martin grabbed again at Liam’s face, fingers searching for his eyes. They were scrunched too tight. He tried to find the throat wound again but the man’s head was moving about too much. Martin felt the tip of his ear starting to rip. He heard it. He got fingers into Liam’s nostrils and pulled with all his might.
Nina walked briskly back into the kitchen. The two men were locked together, faces pressed tight. Martin’s hips were bucking up and down. It looked sexual. She put the barrel of the gun against the base of Liam’s skull and fired. He was grunting and rigid one moment, floppy the next. A lot of stuff flew out the front of his face and into Martin’s. Fleshy
lumps that glistened wetly.
Martin’s eyes were closed. He was gasping out the corner of his mouth as he tried to shift the slack body off him. She altered the aim of the gun and fired three times into his face.
Iona’s hand was on the door handle of Roebuck’s office when she realized it was still empty. She looked around. A smattering of officers on the far side of the room. No sign of the office manager. Highest rank appeared to be a sergeant who used to serve in Wallace’s team; he only ever glared at her or ignored her completely. At least Euan was in his corner, looking badly in need of sleep.
‘Is Roebuck still upstairs?’
‘He is,’ he yawned. ‘He did come down about five minutes ago, then his phone went and he shot up there again.’
‘Shit.’
‘Iona! Not like you to swear. What’s up?’
She gestured weakly at the floor. ‘Something about the stolen laptops. Any word from Islamabad?’
‘Not sure; maybe that’s why Roebuck shot back upstairs.’
‘Sullivan also there?’
‘I believe so.’
She surveyed the room again, unsure who to approach. Euan had turned back to the landslide of paperwork covering his desk. She returned to her own. The only people she could think of to ring were Jim and Martin. Jim could wait for his good news until later. Right now, she needed to alert her colleagues about what Jim had figured out. Martin was her logical first call. He was, after all, the senior rank in their supposed partnership. She hesitated. Would he try and fob her off? Maybe stall things long enough for him to get back and double check what she was asserting? Probably; that would allow him to be alongside her as they reported the discovery. She scolded herself; this was no time for petty point-scoring. The entire investigation had been fatally flawed. She needed all the back-up she could muster if she wanted to be taken seriously.
His phone rang through to his recorded message. She couldn’t believe it.
‘Martin, it’s Iona. Call me the second you get this. I mean the second. It’s vital you do, OK? Bye.’
She placed her handset on the table and looked once more at Roebuck’s deserted office. This was ridiculous. Do I just head up there and knock on O’Dowd’s door? No. They could be on the phone to the chief. It could be a conference call, the Home Secretary patched through from London. She checked the time. Ten past three. What the hell should I do?’
‘Gunshot. I just heard a gunsh— another one, two, three.’
‘From where?’
‘Inside the house.’
‘Visual contact?’
‘Negative. This bush extends round to the rear of the property. I’m moving to my left. There’s a barbecue on the back patio. Smoke’s coming from that. I can see a female! She’s in the kitchen. One body on the floor – no, two. I repeat, two. Lying on the kitchen floor. She has a gun in her right hand.’
‘What’s she doing?’
‘Smoking.’
‘Smoking?’
‘Standing there, smoking and looking down at them. One might be the detective, I can see an arm. He’s wearing a dark blue jacket. I think it’s him.’
‘She’s taken out a detective?’
‘Her or the other person did. No one is moving – wait. She is, now. She’s left the room. What shall I do?’
‘Can you confirm identity of the detective?’
‘Negative. Not from this position.’
‘Can you get closer?’
‘Not without breaking cover. There’s twenty metres of lawn between me and the house.’
‘Understood. But we need to know what’s—’
‘I can see daylight. She’s at the other side of the house. The front door is open. She’s got … bags. She’s moving bags outside. On to the front steps, the car is parked out there.’
‘You mean luggage?’
‘Yes.’
‘Identify the bodies while she’s doing that. Go.’
The Mossad agent emerged from the rhododendron bush and sprinted across the swathe of grass, phone in one hand, a gun in the other, barrel directed at the ground. He sank into a crouch against the back wall of the house. ‘A lot of ash in that barbecue thing. Possibly the casing of a laptop, too.’ He peeped in at the base of the patio window. ‘It’s him. The male detective.’
‘Martin Everington?’
‘Yes. Unknown male lying partially across him. I’d say she did them both while they were struggling. Head shots.’
‘Follow the female, Eli. She’s key to this.’
‘Follow the female?’
‘Correct.’
‘These two in the kitchen?’
‘Nothing to do with us.’
THIRTY-NINE
Iona’s call was answered on the phone’s third ring. ‘Nina Dubianko? It’s Detective Khan. You rang and left me a message a bit earlier. Hello? Are you there?’
‘Yes.’
Iona heard the other woman making a small panting noise. She looked at Martin’s empty seat. ‘Sorry, is this a good time?’
‘No. I mean, yes. Well, I am in kind of a hurry.’
‘I understand, Miss Dubianko. I won’t keep you. Has the other detective called by? The one I was with when we visited you before?’
‘Who?’
‘Detective Everington.’
‘Everington?’
‘Has he been to see you?’
‘No. I thought you were coming to see me. You said you’d be here by now.’
The woman sounded flustered. Slightly out of breath. Iona had a sudden vision of her straddling Martin, looking down at him as he mouthed up at her, I’m not here, I’m not here … ‘I … it wasn’t possible. He hasn’t been?’
‘No.’
The single word answer sounded strained. Something was going on at the other end of the line. Iona closed her eyes. Please, Martin, do not be … coupling with this woman. Not now. Not at this very moment. ‘It sounds like I’m disturbing you.’
‘No. It’s OK.’ She let out a little breath. ‘I am moving some stock to my car, that is all. I have a business appointment I must get to. There.’ Her voice relaxed a notch. ‘It’s done.’
‘OK,’ Iona continued uncertainly. ‘Would you mind asking Detective Everington to call me if he arrives before you set off.’
‘I am leaving now. In the next few minutes.’
‘Oh, right …’
‘Detective Khan. I know something. I think it’s important.’
‘Yes, you said.’ She used the pen in her hand to sweep back a strand of her fringe. ‘Would you like to tell me?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK. I’m listening.’
‘Not over the phone.’
‘Sorry?’
‘This client of Eamon Heslin. I am not comfortable saying more about him over the phone.’
Iona frowned. Was the woman trying to suggest her phone – or house – had been bugged? Surely not. Unless the client was some kind of IT type. ‘You believe this individual could represent some kind of threat to you?’
‘Yes.’
‘A physical threat?’
‘He … I have heard rumours. About him and women. Can we meet? Please?’
There was something about how she was speaking. You don’t sound that on edge for no reason. You know something vital to this investigation, Iona thought, whether you realize it or not. ‘Of course, Miss Dubianko. If that’s what you’d prefer.’
‘Yes, it is. Can you come and meet me now?’
‘Now?’ She looked across at Roebuck’s office. How long before he reappeared? Probably long enough to nip out and see this Nina woman. ‘Where? At your house? Because my colleague is due there any minute.’
‘No – I have to go to this appointment now. But you could meet me there. It’s not far.’
Iona delayed her reply. A part of her was screaming: if the black leather carry case is connected to this client that Nina knows about, you could be walking back in here with all the answers. ‘Where would that be?�
��
‘Woodford. Near Bramhall. There’s a Holiday Inn, by the side of the Manchester Airport Eastern Link Road.’
‘I know it,’ Iona replied, calculating travel times. ‘I could be there in about twenty minutes.’
‘That would be perfect. Shall we say the car park of the Holiday Inn at twenty to four? I’ll be in a white Range Rover.’
Don’t I know it, thought Iona. ‘See you there.’
She swivelled round and reached for her jacket. ‘Euan? If Roebuck reappears can you get him to call me? Or Martin Everington, for that matter. I’m just heading out. Should be back in an hour.’
Halfway to the door, she came to a stop. Car. It’s at my house. She wanted to stamp her foot. Keys to the pool cars were kept in a little wall cabinet behind the office manager’s desk. She reached in and unhooked the nearest ones.
The moment Iona’s call ended, the man in the baseball cap stood. ‘Tal, let’s go.’
The voice came back at him through the black netting. ‘We’re terminating observations?’
‘This is it, Tal. It’s happening right now. Target is the woman Khan just spoke to. Come on!’
His colleague hurriedly placed the camera on the floor and slipped under the sheet of dark material. ‘We’re following Khan?’
‘Yes. She’s going to meet the woman calling herself Dubianko. Eli and Haim are following her.’
The other man was checking the wall display in the rear office. ‘Red Micra.’
The man in the baseball cap was already making for the door. ‘I know. Registration starts MY09.’
FORTY
Iona tried Martin’s phone twice more on the way round the M60. Answerphone. What was he playing at? Ignoring work calls like that: if Sullivan had been unable to get hold of him, he would find himself in serious trouble. Then again, he’d probably answer a call from his boss in a flash.
The Renault felt quite good once she got it into fifth. It was one of those people carriers. Pale green exterior, grey interior. As it sped along in the fast lane, she mulled over the situation. Could Nina and Martin really have been … Would Martin be so unprofessional? Would Nina? She was hurrying to a business appointment, after all. She wouldn’t even have had time to shower. Iona grimaced.