‘So now you need us?’ Donaldson said bitterly.
‘I don’t have a problem with you hacking into other people’s computers. It’s hacking into people’s heads that bothers me.’
Donaldson nodded at Bill. ‘You shouldn’t have brought him.’
‘He’s OK, won’t blab.’
‘He stays here, then.’
‘So be it.’
Donaldson inclined his head for Henry to follow. Henry mouthed and gestured for Bill to stay put and followed the American through the gate, who then ensured it was locked. He walked ahead of Henry through a normal door adjacent to the main shutter door into the unit where the array of vehicles was parked up.
As he walked, Donaldson said, ‘Don’t know why the hell I’m doing this,’ without turning.
‘Cos deep down you’re an old softie?’ Henry speculated, trying to lighten the atmosphere between them.
‘I misjudged you, Henry.’
‘No, Karl, I misjudged you,’ Henry said, realizing the atmosphere was not likely to rise much.
The rest of the short walk was made in silence, through the door leading to the ground-floor corridor, then into the communications centre. Donaldson approached the same man who had done the earlier check on Mansur Rashid.
‘Give him the name, tell him which database to interrogate.’ Donaldson pushed out past Henry, saying, ‘I trust you to make your own way out … and by the way, hacking into other agencies’ databases is not ethical.’ Then he was gone.
Henry gave the man the name and suggested some databases to interrogate. After a few moments, he leaned back. ‘There you go, pal.’
Henry squinted at the screen, memorized what he saw and rushed back out to Bill who waited patiently in the Galaxy. He gave him the address.
‘I’m not even going to bother to ask how you got this.’
‘What you don’t know, don’t get you killed,’ Henry said.
It was fortunate that the liveried Ford Galaxy with a uniformed police officer lounging by the side of it was parked behind Henry in the driveway, otherwise he would have had the front door slammed in his face. Even then, it was a close-run thing. He could tell from the look of horror on the Asian woman’s face when she answered the door and found herself confronted by a man who looked like he’d been dragged under a bus for a hundred metres.
He quickly presented his warrant card and the woman hesitated, still considered closing the door, then relented because of the police vehicle.
It was probably unusual to have anyone knocking at the door in this neck of the woods anyway. Henry guessed the most regular visitors would be the postman and the Sainsbury’s home delivery driver.
The house was in one of the better parts of Blackburn, on Meins Road, right on the edge of town. A big detached property in its own grounds, with sweeping views behind it towards Preston and beyond to the faint shimmer of the Lancashire coast. The huge British Aerospace complex in the middle distance slightly marred the vista. It was the house of a wealthy family.
The woman was late fifties, dressed in a very western style. She was also extremely attractive and Henry could immediately see the likeness between her and the photographs taken by Eddie Daley of Sabera Rashid. He caught his breath.
‘My name is Henry Christie. I’m a detective chief inspector with Lancashire Constabulary … please don’t be alarmed by my appearance — it’s been a tough day … I’m looking for Najma Ismat.’ He tried one of his boyish smiles, but all his broken cheekbone would allow was a scary grimace.
‘What is going on out here?’ an Asian-accented male voice with a definite Lancashire twang demanded to know from inside the house. An old man appeared behind the lady. When he saw Henry, he said, ‘You!’ accusingly. It was Mr Iqbal, the old man Henry had innocently involved in a dangerous car chase whilst on the lookout for a suspect who had dropped through his ceiling and fled from the police raid Henry had led.
‘Mr Iqbal!’
‘Out of the way, girl,’ Iqbal said and elbowed past the woman, holding out a hand for Henry to shake. ‘Salma, this is the policeman I was telling you about,’ he said proudly, his chest swelling as he stood next to Henry and put his arm around him. ‘Henry Christie, this is my daughter, Salma Ismat. She’s a doctor, you know,’ he said proudly.
Henry proffered his hand hesitantly. She responded coolly, but shook his fingertips.
‘I am pleased to meet you,’ she bowed slightly. ‘My father cannot be quiet about his exciting ride in a police car … it made him a happy man.’
‘I thought I’d terrified you.’
‘Only in a good way,’ the old man said. He banged his chest with his fist. ‘Got the ticker pumping … exciting as hell.’
‘I’m pleased.’
Iqbal looked curiously at Henry. ‘Have you had a car crash?’
‘No … look, I don’t want to be abrupt, but does Najma Ismat live here?’
‘Najma is my daughter,’ the lady said.
‘Is she in?’
‘No, why?’
‘I need to speak to her urgently … I’m afraid I can’t explain why. She’s not in any trouble, it’s just that she might know something. I’m trying to trace Mansur Rashid and I think she might know where he is.’
‘That bastard!’ Iqbal hacked up and spat. ‘What’s he done?’
‘Do you know where he is?’ Henry asked again. ‘I need to locate him.’
‘No, we don’t,’ the woman said. ‘And we don’t want to.’
Another man appeared behind her, Henry guessing this was her husband.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked, his eyes taking in the scene.
‘This policeman wants to talk to Najma,’ she explained.
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know … when I saw the police car, I thought they’d come about Sabera for some reason.’
‘Why Najma?’ the father asked.
‘It’s not about Najma, it’s about that Mansur scum,’ Iqbal blurted.
‘You haven’t come about Sabera?’ the father said.
‘No … look, please,’ Henry said, aware this situation might well descend into farce if he wasn’t careful, especially when he noticed a fourth person standing behind the father, a young lad in his early teens, bobbing about on the balls of his feet, trying to see what was going on. Henry executed a chopping motion with the edges of his hands. ‘I’m trying to trace the whereabouts of Mansur Rashid, that’s all. I thought Najma might know where he was. If you know, it’ll save me talking to her.’
He felt a bit of a fraud not letting on about Sabera, but he didn’t want to complicate matters further at that moment. Time was critical, He glanced at his watch. Condoleezza Rice should just about be arriving at her first venue.
‘We don’t know where Najma is,’ the father said sadly. ‘But she works for Rashid and spends a lot of time with him, too. She’s become very influenced by him and his radical views. We’re very worried about her. And we’re worried about Sabera, his wife, our other daughter.’
‘I know where Najma might be,’ Iqbal interjected, raising a finger. He looked at Bill and the Ford Galaxy. ‘If I get a ride in that, I could take you.’
Eighteen
Iqbal positioned himself like a VIP in the middle of the back seat so he could lean forwards between Henry and Bill to direct them. He was chewing that sort of unidentifiable paste again, giving his breath a sweet tang.
Both officers leaned outwards to put a bit of distance between themselves and the old man.
‘Tell me about Rashid,’ Henry said as they set off, leaving a total of five people now standing at the door, another two relatives having emerged from inside the house.
‘He’s an extremist, always winding people up against the Brits,’ Iqbal said, chewing his cud. ‘Go down Preston New Road towards town,’ he instructed Bill.
‘What does he do for a living?’
‘Owns two petrol stations, two Indian restaurants, three shops, lots of property and drives fear into people’s hearts. Everyone is terrified of him, but the young kids — teenagers — think he’s great cos he’s always on about bombing and fundamentalism and stuff. I just think he’s a gangster using religion as a means to an end, but I’m an old guy, so what do I know, except I love this country. It’s been good to me.’