‘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?’
‘She caved in to my… persistence.’
‘Stalking, you mean?’ Rik interjected.
‘OK, yeah,’ Mark admitted. ‘I knew her mum was out because I’d seen her go. I was, like, watching the house. Then Natalie snuck back, I think, and spotted me lurking. We talked through the window and she let me in. Felt sorry for me, I suppose. She said she was getting ready to go out but I begged her to let me in so we could talk. One thing led to another, next thing we’re banging each other’s heads off. One for old times’ sake. We did it in the front room. Then she kicked me out, said it was over and she had people to see.’
‘Did she say who?’ Henry asked.
‘No.’
‘Lewis?’
‘Nah, he was well dumped, too.’
‘Who, then?’
Mark shrugged
‘And that was the last time you saw Natalie Philips? After you’d screwed her on her mum’s front carpet.’
‘Yes.’
‘Was she alive?’
‘Yes, she fuckin’ was.’
‘You sure about that?’ Rik swung in. ‘You killed her, didn’t you? You killed her at her mum’s house, I’ll bet.’
‘Fuck you. I’m saying nothing else.’
TEN
Sailing into Nouadhibou always gave Boone a feeling of desolation — and the creeps.
The final resting place for over three hundred rotting hulks of ships made it the world’s largest ship graveyard. Boone shuddered, not just at the sight, which was awesome and ominous in its own way — some ships were almost intact, run up on to sandbanks and abandoned, others just husks, lying on beaches like huge animal carcasses — but also at the thought that each ship had had a life, a meaning, a journey, a crew, and had been brought here to die by way of bribes paid by shady shipping companies to corrupt officials, who then turned a blind eye to the dumping. It was an incredibly sad journey up into the port for any seafarer.
Boone had pushed himself and Shell hard northwards along the African coast to Nouadhibou, formerly Port- Etienne, which was Mauritania’s second largest city, with about 75,000 inhabitants. Stuck on a forty mile headland, the city had the dubious accolade of being the most popular departure point for African migrants hoping to reach the Canary Islands, thence the EU. It was a very dangerous sea crossing in substandard boats and many thousands were drowned en route every year. About nine thousand actually made it, many landing on the shores of Gran
