He walked through and called, ‘Hey’ to his friend, who turned and gave him a friendly wave. Henry raised the takeaway and said, ‘Enough for two, easily.’
‘Great — I helped myself to a beer, hope that’s OK.’ He held up a bottle of San Miguel.
‘No probs, bought some more anyway.’
Henry picked up his untouched JD from the coffee table as he walked past and downed it in one, then went into the kitchen where he plonked the food on a worktop and rooted out a couple of bowls and forks. As he opened the tin foil dishes, Donaldson joined him. The big American lounged on the door frame and sipped his beer. ‘Leanne’s pretty pissed at you.’
Henry tilted his head and looked at Donaldson, halfway through tipping boiled rice into a bowl. ‘I’m saving her from herself — and the git that was, or is, her boyfriend.’
Donaldson watched Henry divvy up the meal, finished his beer and took the bottle of Chinese beer that Henry gave him. Both then retired to the conservatory, perching their dishes on their laps and starting to eat.
The new dish was good, but there was something pleasant and familiar about a chicken curry that Henry missed slightly.
After they had each shovelled a few hot mouthfuls down, drunk some of the beer — which was exquisite — and the combination was having the desired effect, Henry looked at his friend.
Since their early morning conversation on Blackpool seafront — it seemed almost a lifetime ago — Henry had only seen Donaldson once. That had been when he had turned up in a police car at the scene of the shooting on the motorway. By then, all traffic had been stopped in both directions, diversions were in place, and Henry was waiting for the circus to turn up.
In the meantime, he had ensured that the body of the young Asian man had been covered by plastic sheeting and kept everyone away from it — once they were certain he was dead and nothing could be done to save him. The missing quadrant of his head and punched in face pretty much confirmed that. Once the scene protection was done, Henry had sat down with the AFO who had pulled the trigger.
Henry didn’t know him personally. He turned out to be a thirty-one-year-old constable by the name of Jeff Clarke, who had four years’ experience on firearms, and was also a police sniper — hence the accurate shooting. Until that moment, other than in training scenarios, Clarke had never pointed a weapon in anger at anyone.
Clarke had been ushered into the rear seat of the Volvo he’d arrived in — after his gun had been taken from him by Henry and sealed in the boot of his own car. Henry had done what was necessary with the scene, then had slid in alongside Clarke.
The officer was silent, stone-faced. He glanced suspiciously at Henry.
‘How’re you doing?’
Clarke’s cheeks blew out, he shook his head, shrugged, his hands jittered and he obviously couldn’t think of what to say.
‘You did well,’ Henry said.
‘I killed a man. A boy.’
‘Lawfully. I’ve checked him as much as I dare without contaminating or setting anything off, and he’s definitely got explosives strapped to his body and a detonator in his hand.’
Clarke nodded numbly, taking this in.
‘You did your job when it counted.’
‘Yeah, sure.’ He wiped some spittle from the corner of his mouth.
‘No — you were superb and I’ll back you up one hundred percent.’
Clarke angled his face at Henry, a cynical expression on it. ‘You’re a superintendent, aren’t you?’ Henry nodded. ‘Then forgive me for saying it, sir, but I’ll believe that when I see it. If I know this force, I’ll be strung out like wet keks.’
Henry realized this wasn’t a point of view he would be able to change sitting in the back of an ARV, on a motorway, fifty metres from a very dead body, so he didn’t try. Clarke would have to see that Henry meant his words in the fullness of time. His actions would speak for themselves.
Other cops and specialists — the circus — were rolling up to the scene, including Donaldson who arrived in a car with the FB and Martin Beckham, the MI5 man.
Henry laid a hand on Clarke’s shoulder, could not think of anything reassuring to say, so he got out and was instantly buffeted by the wind again.
He had stretched crime scene tape around the area, using police cars as temporary points to attach it from, and Donaldson immediately ducked under it and almost ran to the body, squatting on his haunches and lifting back the plastic sheet, great hope on his face.
Henry watched his head shake and a very pissed-off expression come on to his face. He lay the sheet back carefully and slouched dejectedly back to where Henry, FB and Beckham were standing behind the tape. Donaldson was still shaking his head.
‘Not Jamil Akram,’ Donaldson announced. ‘I thought it wasn’t from the description.’
‘Are you sure it was Akram you chased in the first place?’ Beckham said.
‘Totally.’
‘And you’re sure Akram is the one who knocked over a policeman?’
‘Totally. That guy,’ Donaldson jerked his thumb in the direction of the body on the carriageway, ‘is Rashid Rahman, the second of the two guys you briefed the cops on so well earlier. You know, the ones who were supposed to be holed up in a flat the cops were watching and who, somehow, got out without being seen? Shit like that happens, I know.’
‘And you’re sure you took a pot shot at Jamil Akram?’
‘As eggs is eggs — and somehow he changed places with that poor sucker, which means that Jamil Akram is still out there in the wide world, free as a bird.’
‘But you shot him — well, at least you say you did?’ Beckham sneered.
‘Oh, I shot him — obviously not well enough.’
‘Maybe you got it wrong in the heat of the moment. Maybe you didn’t chase Akram and maybe you didn’t put a bullet into him — maybe the male in the car was this one.’ Beckham gestured towards the body.
Donaldson and Beckham glared at each other and continued to bicker on the hard shoulder. Henry just walked away, stunned by the childishness of it all.
‘Are you and Mr Beckham friends yet?’ Henry asked Donaldson. They had finished their meal, the Chinese beers, and Henry had rooted out some more San Miguel, which was cooling them down.
‘Uh, wouldn’t say that,’ Donaldson muttered. ‘Reached an impasse, which is probably as good as it gets.’
‘So where is everything up to?’
‘Well, as you know, Rahman was rigged up to explode, so the death call by your man, PC Clarke, was right on the money. He did the right thing.’
‘Let’s hope he hears that from all the right places,’ Henry said. ‘Including the justice system.’
‘He will.’ Donaldson sipped his beer. ‘The guy I wrestled down near to the Tower, Zahid Sadiq, will now be at Paddington Green police station in London for questioning. Usual procedure with a terrorist. Hopefully I’ll get to have words with him at some point — if your security people will allow me. Both he and Rahman were wearing the same explosives rig, and the guy behind that, the bomb-maker and brain-washer Mr Jamil Akram, is still free and no doubt already out of the country.’
‘So quickly?’ Henry said in surprise.
‘Yup — organized to run, these guys.’
‘But you’re sure you shot him?’
Donaldson nodded and Henry believed him. ‘Winged the bastard, that’s all. I know exactly where I shot him.’ Donaldson pointed to a spot at the back of his own right bicep. He sighed. ‘Sadly it wasn’t through the head. They’ll find his blood in the car once they examine it.’