‘Sorry about the food,’ he said. ‘Major peckish.’
‘Me too. Shopping’s hell. I heard your order, by the way,’ she grinned. ‘You obviously spend too much time in coffee houses.’
‘It’s become a habit I don’t seem capable of breaking. Costing me a small fortune.’ He took a sip of his extra hot coffee, which wasn’t that hot, but tasted good. He had always subsisted on the kick of coffee, it had sustained him through many a long inquiry, but now he was a little bit addicted to it and lurking around cafes, alone. It felt a bit shameful, like frequenting brothels, but less fun.
Alison sipped hers, her eyes shining across the rim of her mug. ‘Well, here we are.’
‘Mm.’ Henry wiped his lips. ‘Yep — here we are.’
He had literally no idea what to say to this lady.
‘You never called or came to see me,’ she said. It wasn’t spoken in a belligerent way, just factual.
‘I thought it better not to. For personal and professional reasons.’
Her brow furrowed.
‘The personal reasons may have skewed professional judgement, so I thought it better to delegate and let others reach conclusions, maybe with a few nudges from me.’
So he knows, she thought wildly.
Henry drank more coffee. It wasn’t hot at all any more.
‘I’m so sorry about your wife,’ Alison said.
Henry opened his mouth to say something but no words came out. Instead, he heated up from the neck and felt slightly nauseous. In the end, he half-shrugged and drank more coffee, the flow of which took away the sickly sensation. She reached across and laid her cool fingertips on the back of his hand, genuine tenderness in her eyes.
Henry knew that Alison had lost her husband a few years earlier in Afghanistan where they had both been serving in the armed forces, she as a medic. On leaving the forces she had bought the Tawny Owl pub in Kendleton, where she lived with her husband’s daughter from a previous marriage, and they ran the place between them.
Hesitantly his hand covered hers. He puffed out a long sigh that ended with a chuckle. ‘What a pair,’ he said. ‘Us, I mean… not …’
‘Henry,’ she said solemnly, ‘talk to me. Say what you need to say about you and Kate. Unload — because I get the feeling that so far it’s all still bottled up inside.’ She paused, her eyes searching for acknowledgement of this truth — which she got when his eyes refused to meet hers. ‘I won’t judge you,’ she promised. ‘I’ll listen, nod, ask questions and then, when you’ve finished, maybe we can possibly think about us. What do you say?’
He squinted, then said weakly, ‘I’m not sure where to begin.’
‘We’ll find a place,’ she said, but was cut short by Henry’s mobile, the ringtone of which he’d changed for another Rolling Stones’ intro: Miss You. He almost rolled his eyes at the corny pathos.
‘Sorry,’ he said and answered it, stating his name. He listened and grunted, then said, ‘Fifteen minutes,’ and hung up. ‘Really sorry, Alison, got to go. I’m investigating a murder. Got a suspect in custody.’
‘OK,’ she said sadly. They looked at each other for a few lingering seconds before she found the courage to say, ‘I’m booked into the Hilton for the night…’
Donaldson leaned over and looked at the bloodstain on the aircraft seat, then turned to the air stewardess who had been on the flight out and who recalled the quiet passenger wedged into the seat. She seemed to quake slightly as Donaldson’s eyes took her in and she gasped as she responded to his question.
‘Yes, I remember him. This was my section of the plane.’ Donaldson watched her mouth and eyes as she spoke and also saw redness creeping up her neck. ‘He… he… er… actually didn’t move once. He didn’t buy anything, no, he did, sorry, a bottle of water. Otherwise just pulled his cap down and slept… now I see why.’
‘You’ve been a great help. Thank y’all, ma’am.’ He purposely switched on the Yankee twang and the OTT politeness. He had only just learned, maybe in the last eighteen months or so, the effect he had on women, many of whom virtually swooned in his presence. ‘Can you tell me anything more about him?’
‘No, not really. It was a fairly late flight and quite a few passengers just tucked in and slept.’
‘OK, that’s great.’ He treated her to his best lopsided grin, which made her pupils expand with a blood rush and sent a tremor all the way through her. She turned and walked unsteadily down the centre of the plane, wafting herself with her hands.
Shuffled behind Donaldson, FB and Beckham were both looking at the blood. Donaldson’s winning smile morphed into a bitter line as he looked at them. ‘What is it now?’ he pondered. ‘Well over twenty-four hours gone? He walked straight on to a plane at an airport not fifty miles from where he’d been operating, unchallenged, wounded, using a false passport f’Christ’s sake. Disembarks four hours later and two thousand miles south, and he’s vanished. Fuck!’ He looked squarely at Beckham. ‘This operation could have gone so much better.’
‘I’ll let you into a secret,’ Beckham retorted, ‘this was one of half a dozen anti-terror operations that happened in the UK yesterday, one of over three hundred each year… you can’t expect-’
Donaldson cut him off. ‘But this was the real deal. We ended up with two real live suicide bombers. One dead, one in custody. Real deal.’
FB stepped in. ‘We still have things. The flat, for one, which might reveal something, and a body to sweat. There’s every hope he’ll talk.’
‘Oh, he’ll talk,’ Donaldson said. ‘I’ll make certain of that.’
What Donaldson didn’t see was the expression on Beckham’s face as he turned away from the American, an expression that said, ‘Oh no you won’t.’
‘What’s so urgent it couldn’t wait? I said I’d be back, or didn’t you pick up your messages?’ Henry demanded of Rik Dean, who looked hurt by Henry’s sharpness.
‘Uh, sorry, boss… it’s Mark Carter.’
‘And?’
‘He won’t speak to Martin or Ray… say’s he’ll only speak to you.’
‘Look, I didn’t kill her,’ Mark said, voice stressed.
‘Right,’ said Henry, unimpressed.
‘But, like I said, we did, y’know, screw… you’re going to find my stuff inside her, can’t deny that.’
‘Can’t deny how bad it will look for you, either.’
They were in an interview room within the boundaries of the custody suite. Mark had been processed and had opted for the services of a duty solicitor, who sat alongside him, facing Henry and Rik across the table. The tape and video recorders were running.
‘Why do you want to talk to me?’ Henry asked.
Mark shrugged helplessly. ‘Cos I know you, I suppose. Not that I like you; I don’t.’
‘Fine. Get talking. The tape’s running.’
Mark glanced at the solicitor, one of Blackpool nick’s regulars. He nodded encouragement to his client. Mark took a breath. ‘I suppose I’ve been stalking her, really,’ he revealed. Henry groaned inwardly. ‘She dumped me and I couldn’t hack it. Like I said, it was just someone else fucking me off. And I kept, y’know, following her and harassing her and generally pissing her off. But I didn’t threaten her or hurt her or anything like that. Just kept annoying her, I suppose.’
‘You stalked her,’ Henry stated flatly. Mark’s body language was desperate, like he was trapped in a well. ‘Did you rape her? Is this what it’s all about?’
‘No — NO! Did I hell. Henry, you know me. I wouldn’t hurt a fly. I was just so…’ He threw his hands up, lost for words. ‘Angry
… pathetic… all alone. Y’know, we’d had a good time, had lots of sex. She was on the pill — but her mum didn’t know. Then she dumped me. I could kinda see it coming, bit by bit. She liked lads, lots of ’em.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Putting it around. Lewis Kitchen was shagging her too.’
‘Just hold on a second. How come you had sex with her a couple of days ago if she’d dumped you?’