by Nick Oldham
Aleef led him to the first floor office he used as a base. It was basic, but very secure, with a thick steel, multi-locked door that took ages for the dithering Aleef to unlock, especially with his broken finger.
Flynn stood behind him, watchful and wary, not trusting him at all, and wanted to get moving. They had left the four bodies in the house, locked behind them, all the window blinds fastened as tightly as possible. It would not be long before decomposition began in the African heat, but at least the locked windows and doors would prevent the smell getting out for a while longer. Flynn didn’t envy the person who would have to kick down the door and fight through a swarm of bluebottles.
Eventually they entered the office. Again, basic. Large wooden desk, a big comfy chair for Aleef and a plastic one for the client. Behind the desk, bracketed to the wall, stood the safe.
‘Open it,’ Flynn said, propelling Aleef forwards. He stumbled down in front of it, and dabbed a finger from his uninjured hand on the digital keypad, then turned the handle as it beeped. Flynn heard the heavy locking mechanism scrape back. Aleef turned to Flynn, despair on his face and in his body language at the prospect of losing his money.
‘Who are you? Who are you who will leave me a pauper?’ He sounded like a character from Dickens.
‘That would be telling. Best you don’t know.’ He jerked the Glock. ‘Carry on.’ Aleef bent to the task of pulling open the safe. ‘When did he leave?’ Flynn asked.
‘Who, sir?’
‘You know who I’m talking about.’
‘Ahh, that man. Maybe two days ago.’
‘Did you arrange his travel?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘How did he travel?’
‘Air.’
‘From where to where?’
‘Banjul to Gatwick, England.’
‘He just flew? Just like that?’
‘Yes – on a false passport.’
‘Also arranged by you?’
‘I am a fixer,’ Aleef said humbly.
‘Actually, you are as much of a terrorist as him.’
‘I’m a businessman,’ he protested. Aleef pulled down the handle with a metallic clang and eased open the safe door. He came slightly upright and showed Flynn the contents: stack upon stack of cash, many currencies, all denominations, all carefully bound.
‘That is what Mr Boone wanted.’
‘Stand away,’ Flynn said.
Aleef edged back a few inches, his eyes jittery. Next to the desk was a waste paper basket lined with a supermarket carrier bag. Flynn pulled the bag out with his left hand, placed it on the desk, took hold of its base and tipped the contents on to the floor. He handed the bag to Aleef.
‘Fill it – dollars and sterling only.’
Colour seeped from Aleef’s face. ‘That is virtually all of my money.’
‘Eggs in one basket,’ Flynn winked. ‘Now fucking fill the bag.’ He pointed the gun at Aleef’s groin.
Aleef swallowed and got to the task, half-filling the bag with many blocks of carefully counted money.
‘How much?’ Flynn asked.
‘Thirty-two thousand US dollars, four thousand sterling.’
‘Not even close to the value of a man’s life,’ Flynn muttered.
‘His choice, not mine.’
Aleef suddenly swung the bag at Flynn, let go of the handle and it flew towards him, the money inside helping to propel it. Flynn ducked instinctively. Aleef’s right hand came up holding a small calibre gun. Flynn realized that the weapon must have been concealed in the safe, obviously for moments like this, and Aleef had managed to palm it without Flynn seeing it. Sneaky bastard, Flynn thought.
But as sneaky and underhand as he was, he was slow and Flynn had not relaxed enough for someone like Aleef to get the better of him. As soon as he saw the gun moving, the Glock jerked up and two bullets from it slammed into Aleef’s chest, knocking him back against the wall. He slithered down it, dead.
Flynn picked up the carrier bag, slammed the safe shut with a kick, and left the office after locking it up.
Within minutes he was back at the place where Boone’s Land Cruiser had been parked, expecting to find it gone, but Michelle was still there, having ignored his instructions. Just as he knew she would. He climbed into the passenger seat and they exchanged a look.
‘Just get back to the boat,’ Flynn said, ‘no questions.’
She nodded, started the engine.
‘It might be better for you to lie low for a while. Can you do that?’
She nodded again. ‘I have family in Sierra Leone. I can go there by bus.’
‘What about by boat? Boone said you were a natural sailor. Can you pilot the boat?’
‘He taught me.’
‘On the ocean?’
‘On the ocean,’ she confirmed.
‘Good – take the boat. It would be a crime not to.’
‘But I don’t have money. I couldn’t afford to.’
‘You do now.’ Flynn held up the carrier bag.
Henry, Rik, Donaldson and a CSI entered the flat in Blackpool that had been used by Zahid Sadiq and Rashid Rahman, and visited by Jamil Akram, the bomb-maker. The landlord, awakened at such an early hour, had been surprisingly cooperative, and let the detectives in again, not saying a word. He still had not managed to re-let it, nor had he received any word about getting the contents back from MI5. He let them in and said he was going back to bed and not to bother him unless absolutely necessary. He also reconfirmed that no one had been in or used the flat since their last visit.
Once inside, Henry looked expectantly at Donaldson.
‘Follow me,’ he said. He led them towards the bathroom, a fairly disgusting room consisting of toilet, wash basin and shower cubicle, all tiled, but the grout stained with black mildew. It was just about big enough for Donaldson to step into and turn around. He slid his hand into his back pocket and extracted a folded sheet of paper which he opened out. ‘I got the lovely Mr Beckham to fax this to me, obviously thinking he had nothing to lose by doing so.’ He handed the sheet to Henry. ‘An itemized list of property seized by his forensic team from this bathroom.’
Henry scanned the very short list. Two hand towels, a bar of soap, a roll-on deodorant, a shower mat. Henry shook his head, puzzled. ‘What’s missing?’ Donaldson said.
Henry looked blankly at his friend. He was too tired. ‘Just tell me.’
‘Other than soap, no toiletries.’
Henry’s expression was still blank.
Donaldson sighed. ‘What do you have next to your sink at home?’
Henry could have fallen asleep standing up. ‘Like I said, just—’
‘OK, I’ll tell you. Shaving foam or gel and a razor, yeah?’
‘Maybe they used an electric one.’
‘Not in the complete inventory for the rest of the flat.’ He tapped his back pocket. ‘Got it here.’
‘What are you getting at?’ Henry’s shoulders had sagged.
‘Did you bring a wrench?’
‘I’ve got it,’ Rik said. He was behind Henry, who said, ‘Even got the monkey.’
Rik held up a large adjustable wrench that Henry had acquired from the police station janitor.
‘Gimme.’ Donaldson took it from him, turned to the sink and went on to his knees in front of it. The pipe down from the plughole dropped into a plastic U-bend with large plastic nuts that were capable of being loosened by hand. They unscrewed easily after the first use of force and a moment later Donaldson stood up with the complete U-bend in his hands. He fitted the plug into the sink and then emptied the contents of the U-bend into it.
The water in it had obviously been standing for about a fortnight and was scummy and stinky.
‘There,’ he declared proudly, ‘what do you think?’
Henry, Rik and the CSI crammed into the bathroom to have a look.
‘Water. From a U-bend. What am I missing here?’ Henry said.
Donaldson reached into his other back jeans
pocket and pulled out four crumpled photographs.
Zahid Sadiq and Rashid Rahman. Two students prepared to give their lives for a highly suspect cause. There were two shots of Rahman: one that Donaldson had downloaded from the video, the other a close-up of his face on the mortuary slab after having been shot on the motorway. And two of Sadiq: a college photograph and a mug shot taken on his arrest.
‘What’s not in here?’ Donaldson indicated the room.
‘Shaving gear,’ Henry said, as it started to dawn on him.
‘What was not on their faces or heads when we got to them? Me in town, you on the motorway.’ Donaldson held up the photographs for them to see.
Henry felt a lurch inside him. ‘They were clean-shaven.’
‘Exactly,’ Donaldson proclaimed. ‘Ready to be received into heaven. In fact, their whole bodies were clean-shaven.’
Henry thought back to Rahman’s corpse in the mortuary. No pubic hair, no head hair, no armpit hair, legs shaved, face smooth.
Donaldson’s eyes were wild.
But Henry said, ‘That’s not to say they didn’t shave here. They could have done it in the shower.’
‘I’ll wager a million dollars of FBI money we won’t find a trace of anything down that shower drain either. Which is where you come in.’ He shot a look at the CSI, who nodded, knowing what his job was.
‘Get on with it,’ Henry said to the man, and he and Donaldson reversed out of the shower room into the living area. ‘What are you saying?’ Henry asked his friend.
‘That one way of spotting a potential male suicide bomber is the lack of facial hair. And something else has been bugging me about that morning, even though I didn’t really get a grip of it until now. This place was under police surveillance from quite early on. When I saw Sadiq walking down the promenade it was simply assumed that somehow he had either been out before the cops arrived to watch him, or he’d managed to get out undetected.’ Donaldson shook his head. ‘Even as ineffective as Lancashire Constabulary are, I say, to use one of your words – bollocks! It was never even thought through. The car they were supposed to be using was outside, tick! So they musta been here, tick! Assumptions, ass bites.’
‘You’re saying they weren’t even here that morning?’
‘This might well be their flat, but you’re right. They prepared themselves and set off from somewhere else, which means they had a hidey-hole of their own elsewhere and that someone else was involved in this.’
There was a crash and cracking noise from the bathroom, then the CSI came out bearing the drainage pipe from underneath the shower tray. ‘Nothing down here but scum. No trace of hairs.’
‘And there would be a lot of hair,’ Rik said.
Henry turned on Donaldson and said, ‘How many musketeers are there?’
Puzzled, the American said, ‘Three, I guess.’
‘Exactly.’ Henry, now rejuvenated, got out his mobile phone and opened it, at which moment it rang.
Flynn was in the wheelhouse of Faye2, heading out to sea from the estuary of the Gambia River. Fast.
‘What?’ Henry said, screwing up his face. ‘Who?’
‘Flynn, Steve Flynn.’
‘What the hell are you calling me for? And at this time of day?’ Henry had little time for the man. Their history was rocky to say the least.
‘That’s not very nice,’ Flynn said. He took a swig of the mug of tea he’d prepared, which tasted amazing in the present circumstances.
‘I’m busy.’
‘Got something for you.’
‘If you’re phoning to tell me you never stole that million quid – wrong time, wrong bloke.’ Henry, now standing on the landing outside the flat, gave Donaldson a weary look, then said, ‘Did you try to phone me earlier?’
‘Yup.’
‘Why? I’m not interested in anything you might have to say.’
‘In that case I’ll hang up, find someone who does want to listen, and make you look stupid into the bargain.’
‘Look, Flynn, what the hell d’you want? I am seriously busy here.’
‘Jamil Akram,’ Flynn stated. Besides the mug of tea, he had made himself a couple of slices of thick toast coated in butter and marmalade. He folded half a slice into his mouth.
‘What? Say that again.’
‘You heard,’ Flynn said through a mouthful of toast.
‘Speak, now,’ Henry said, and mouthed ‘Jamil Akram’ to Donaldson.
‘I know where he’s been hiding out – and I know he isn’t there any more.’
Flynn set the autopilot, slid off the seat and walked on to the rear deck of Faye2, sat on the fighting chair, mug in one hand, toast in the other, mobile phone clamped between his shoulder and ear.
‘What? How do you know?’ Henry asked.
‘I think you should call me back,’ Flynn said. ‘Costing me money, this.’
‘No – I don’t want to lose the connection. I’ll reimburse you.’
‘That’s what I like to hear.’
‘Where are you? Can we speak face to face?’
‘Only if you can get to the Atlantic Ocean, eight miles west of the Gambia.’
‘Steve – Karl Donaldson’s here. You know him, the FBI guy?’
‘The Yank, yeah.’ Flynn had met Donaldson the previous year when all three of their paths crossed in the village of Kendleton when they found themselves in the middle of a gangster war zone.
‘I’m going to put my phone on speaker, so he can hear too. He has a vested interest.’
‘Anybody else there?’ Flynn said. ‘Not sure I want anyone else listening in.’
‘Just me and him,’ Henry lied. ‘Trust me.’
Flynn guffawed and tossed his toast crust into the wake being churned up by the boat.
Henry pressed the speaker button and held the phone between himself and Donaldson.
‘Steve – it’s me, Karl Donaldson. How ya doing?’
‘How do, buddy?’
‘Whatcha got?’
‘Just the basics, OK? And no nooky questions from you lot, OK? When you guys came across Akram, he had started his journey from the Gambia. After you screwed up his plans he returned here via Gran Canaria and Mauritania, where he recuperated from the gunshot.’
‘How did he get off Gran Canaria?’ Donaldson asked.
‘Private airstrip north of Las Palmas, to Mauritania, then by sea to the Gambia where he holed up.’
The line suddenly went dead.
‘Steve!’ Henry said. ‘Steve, fuck!’
‘Still here,’ Flynn’s voice came back.
‘How do you know all this?’ Donaldson asked.
‘Nooky question . . . no time for that, but there is something you need to know. He’s—’
The line went dead again
‘Oh great,’ Henry uttered.
‘Back again,’ Flynn said.
‘He’s what?’ Donaldson cut in.
‘He’s gone back to finish what he started. Check recent flights into Gatwick from the Gambia and a passport by the name of Masud Aziz. Say in the last two days. And that’s as much as I know, take it or leave it. So watch your arses because he’s one dangerous fucker. Do with that what you will. You’ve got a dangerous terrorist back on your patch.’
Flynn ended the call. He finished his tea and toast, then picked up the Glock and threw it out of the boat, together with the keys for Aleef’s office. Then he went back to the wheel, checked the autopilot settings, and tried to relax.
The GCHQ operative who had picked up the mention of Jamil Akram in the conversation between Flynn and Jerry Tope had been waiting for more from Flynn’s mobile number. And, when it came, he picked up the secure landline phone next to him which was programmed to automatically dial a number so that he could pass on anything further.
Martin Beckham thanked him for the information, ended the call and redialled another number that was answered immediately.
‘Do we have any resources in the north of England, Lancashire in
particular?’
The question was directed to MI5’s operations manager who chuckled and said, ‘Ironically, yes.’
‘Why ironically?’
‘We have an SAS unit training. The irony being they’re on land owned by our good friend, Sir Hugo Marchmaine.’
‘Ahh.’ Beckham smiled. ‘Are they ready to roll?’
‘At a moment’s notice, sir.’
When Beckham had finished briefing the ops manager, he hung up the phone and settled back into his bed. The figure next to him said sleepily, ‘What’s going on?’
‘Nothing you need to know about. Now try to get back to sleep, Tom, my love.’
On the landing outside the tiny flat, Henry and Donaldson stared blankly at each other. Rik hovered close by.
Donaldson broke the silence. ‘Where do we take it from here?’
‘Talk to a murderer for a start,’ Henry replied.
Ten minutes later Henry was entering the custody suite at Blackpool police station, Donaldson close behind. Henry walked straight past the custody officer into the cell complex.
Driver’s cell door was open. A uniformed gaoler sat on a chair outside, keeping a suicide watch on the prisoner, who, still in the billowy forensic suit, was sitting up on the bench bed. The gaoler stood up, but Henry waved him back down, and stepped into the cell.
Driver looked up, his eyes raw. ‘Come to interview me in a cell?’ he dared. ‘Out of order, isn’t it?’
‘I want to clear something up. Where exactly did you pick up Natalie Philips?’
‘I don’t know. I picked her up and killed her, isn’t that enough?’
‘Where, exactly, did you find her in the first place?’ Henry insisted.
Driver held a thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose. ‘I don’t know. Somewhere just off the town centre. Not sure of the street name. I don’t really know Blackpool that well.’
‘If I showed you a street map, could you pinpoint it?’
‘Maybe, why?’
‘I think the time for you asking why is long gone, don’t you?’
Driver glared insolently at Henry, then his expression altered slightly and he dropped his arrogance. ‘Springfield Road,’ he said.
Just on the northern edge of the town centre.
‘And what exactly did she have to say about shaving her boyfriend?’