‘Yeah — and he plays on it. He knows you feel guilty about him. I reckon we pull him back in and sweat the little shit — obviously within the bounds of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act.’
‘No. He’s on police bail, let’s leave it at that for the moment. We need to look at all the other lines. Y’know — the other ex, Lewis Kitchen, the school teacher who’s been paying her too much attention, the missing stepdad. We should have some updates on these, shouldn’t we?’ There was a debrief due to take place at nine that evening, and the inquiry teams would be reporting their findings. It was now seven.
‘Pointless,’ Rik said. He jabbed his finger at the printed out e-mail in front of Henry containing the result of the DNA compari-son. ‘He’s our man — boy — whatever. I’m convinced. He admits stalking her — and the way he clammed up when I put it to him. Says a lot, that.’
‘Baby love, that’s all,’ said Henry.
‘I vote we bring him back in.’
Henry shook his head. Then he glanced up past Rik’s shoulder and saw the figure of Karl Donaldson enter the MIR. Henry pushed the e-mail print out over to Rik and said, ‘Read this.’
‘Hi pal,’ Donaldson said to Henry. He nodded at Rik who’d taken the e-mail and plonked himself down nearby. Donaldson looked exhausted. Henry had hardly seen him in the last couple of days. He’d given him a key to his house with instructions to use the facilities when necessary, but Henry knew he’d been down to London and back again, then back down to keep track on the progress being made in interviews with Zahid Sadiq, the failed suicide bomber. Henry had no idea how that was going. Another high ranking detective had taken over the police shooting on the motorway and apart from being interviewed himself and making a statement, that was as far as his involvement went. He knew it wouldn’t go away, though, because the Independent Police Complaints Commission was now in the mix and Henry would be speaking to them shortly. And what a jumble it was, he’d thought: cops, Counter Terrorism, Special Branch, the FBI, MI5, IPCC. He hoped to keep as far away from it as possible. It was like torrid porridge.
‘Karl — how goes it?’
‘Can we get a coffee somewhere?’
‘Sure — Rik’s office has a machine on the go. Rik, that OK?’
Rik’s eyes rose from the e-mail, wide and astonished. ‘Yeah, yeah
…’ he said absently, then, ‘fucking hell, Henry. Now I see your point of view about Carter.’ He stabbed his finger at the piece of paper. ‘According to this she had sex with at least three other men before her death — and oral sex with one of them. She’s got four lots of sperm in her.’
‘Yep — and we don’t know who they are.’
Donaldson took the coffee gratefully, then sat in one of the comfortable chairs in Rik’s office. Henry, also coffee in hand, perched on the corner of the desk.
‘You look jaded.’
Donaldson held up his mug in a ‘cheers’ gesture. ‘Love you too.’
‘Been a slog?’
‘Feel like I’m hitting my head against a shithouse wall.’
‘I thought you Yanks called them restrooms?’
‘Getting too English for my own good. I even queue without complaining these days. Even skipped complaining altogether about anything.’
‘Jamil Akram,’ Henry guessed.
‘Mm.’ Donaldson looked despondent. He sighed, ‘Part of the problem I have is that I foisted — foisted? — myself on Beckham, the spookmeister, and he don’t want me around because I annoy him. I know more than he does, but they — your security service — seem content with what they’ve got.’
‘Two suicide bombers, one in custody, one dead?’
‘Hey — a victory in the war on terror.’
‘A good victory, Karl,’ Henry assured him. ‘And you played a major part in it.’
‘Hell, yeah… but it could be so much better… and not only that, this goes real deep, Henry. Feel it in my bones.’
‘Feel what?’
‘Instinct, Henry, instinct. You know what the hell that is?’
‘The dictionary definition or the gut-wrenching feeling you have when you just… just know? That can’t be defined.’
‘That’s the one.’ Donaldson stifled a yawn. ‘We missed him by a gnat’s todger. I picked that up from one of your Met guys.’
‘A midge’s dick.’
‘Same difference.’ He sipped his coffee. It was good, slightly bitter and with a subtle kick to it. ‘Jamil Akram is a fanatical terrorist,’ he said forcefully. ‘He runs training camps that teach stupid kids how to make bombs, shoot guns, stick knives into people and he has the ability to brainwash people, too. Simple kids who are disaffected and want something… his bombs have been planted in war zones and shopping malls. People he’s brainwashed have walked up to military checkpoints, superstores, and blown themselves and hundreds of others to pieces. His bombs were used in the American Embassy blast in Kenya in 1998 where I lost a good pal. Mostly, though, he doesn’t come out of hiding. But when he does, it precedes something major.’
‘Do you have evidence of that?’
‘Intelligence over the years, yes. Which is why I have a very bad feeling.’
‘As to why he put in an appearance here?’
Donaldson nodded.
‘What does Zahid Sadiq have to say on the subject?’ Henry asked, naming the young man entombed in the depths of Paddington Green police station.
‘Not a lot… I haven’t been allowed in to torture him yet. Haven’t been allowed near him, come to that,’ he said wistfully.
A deep tremor zinged through Henry’s veins. Donaldson — FBI agent, husband, father of three incredible kids — gave the impression of being a simple, straightforward bloke, good at his job and a bit naive in the ways of the world. But if this veneer was peeled away, Henry knew there was much, much more to this man. He could be a violent operator, in a controlled way, and had no qualms in making bad guys suffer. Over the years, Henry had pieced bits together and was fairly certain that his friend carried out clandestine jobs for the US government and certainly wasn’t averse to torture if he thought it necessary. Henry had witnessed some of Donaldson’s interview techniques first-hand and they had shocked him, even though he understood the purpose behind them. And his little offhand remark, Henry knew, was more than a joke or a flight of fancy. If he could have Sadiq to himself, Henry had no doubt that the misguided youth would soon be begging to confess all.
A text message landed on Donaldson’s phone. He shuffled it out of his chinos pocket, read it, then said, ‘You got Internet access here?’ Henry pointed to the computer on Rik’s desk. Donaldson handed his phone to Henry and said, ‘Can we have a look at this?’
The knocking woke Boone. He jerked awake, almost falling off the bench in the cockpit. Rubbing his eyes and making a dry clacking noise with his tongue on the roof of his mouth, he stood sleepily and took in the figure standing at the cockpit door.
It was a hunched, desperate looking, grey-faced man, gaunt and wild, and for a moment Boone did not recognize him. Then he did, just in the moment before he said, ‘What the fuck’re you doing on my boat?’ But the words, though formed, did not come out because he realized this frail individual was the man he’d taken to Gran Canaria a few days earlier, and transferred to another boat. Boone also recognized there was something very wrong with him now, hence the appearance.
‘I’m here,’ the man said. He stepped forwards and then, seemingly for no reason, he stumbled. His eyes rolled up in their sockets, so that they now resembled yellow billiard balls, and he fell. Boone’s tired mind clicked into place and he caught the guy before he, literally, hit the deck.
Boone dragged him roughly through the cockpit into the stateroom and heaved him on to the bed. As his hands came away, they were wet and, when he looked, covered in blood. Boone swore.
The man opened his eyes, gasped.
‘Jesus, man,’ Boone said. He removed the man’s zip-up jacket and saw that the area around the top of his right arm and chest was soaked in blood. The man moaned. Boone gagged slightly, tossed the jacket to one side and peeled the man’s shirt off, blowing out his cheeks as he saw the equally blood-sodden bandages around the man’s bicep.