So far the guy had been lucky.
Boone wiped around the hole with antiseptic pads, then squeezed a tube of antiseptic cream into it, before covering it with a clean plaster and a bandage. He broke one of the morphine ampoules, filled a syringe and jabbed it into the man’s thigh through his trousers, then thumbed the plunger down slowly.
‘I’ll get you a mug of tea and a bottle of water. You need to keep yourself hydrated. Then we’ll be on our way.’
The man nodded. ‘Thank you.’ His eyes became dreamy as the morphine took effect. He laid himself out on the bed and closed his eyes.
Ten minutes later they were underway and Boone was easing Shell carefully out of port, past the ships in the graveyard, and heading out to open sea, sailing south. He had slipped the man’s passport and wallet out of his jacket without him noticing and had them both resting on the angled console in front of him.
By the dimmed cockpit light, he inspected both documents.
The passport, in the name of Ali Karim, meant nothing to him, other than it was British and looked genuine enough. The leather wallet, soaked in blood, was much more interesting. It contained five hundred pounds sterling and three hundred and fifty euros. Boone flicked through the wads, thinking, these guys certainly have money behind them. He visualized the cash he’d peeked at, stashed up in Aleef’s safe. He eased three hundred pounds and two hundred euros out of the wallet and slid the notes into his back pocket, wondering what the wounded Ali Karim had been up to, if that was his real name — Boone doubted that — and who might be after him.
They watched the computer screen in silence, Rik Dean joining them and standing quietly behind, still holding the e-mail.
A bearded young man sat cross-legged in front of a draped Islamic flag with a green crescent moon and five-pointed star, wearing a turban, a grubby white galabiyya and rubber slippers, telling the world in a regional English accent just why he was prepared to give his life for Islam, why he hated Western infidels and why his death was easy in the fight against the oppressors. Laid across his lap was a Kalashnikov rifle and unfolded in front of him was a waistcoat packed with blocks of explosives.
Henry’s nostrils flared as he watched the rant. A chill came over him to see such alienation coupled with brainwashing. But much worse, the thing that made it all the more chilling, was the English accent. Pure Lancashire.
This was the video posted on-line, made by Rashid Rahman, the young would-be suicide bomber who had been shot dead on the motorway. The fact he hadn’t had a chance to detonate the bomb that had been strapped around his middle was not the point. That he hadn’t taken fifty other innocent people with him, as he clearly stated was his intention — ‘so they may go to hell and I to heaven’ — did not matter. He was to have died an Islamic hero’s death, but now, of course, he’d been murdered by the hand of the infidel. Then he added, ‘And this is only the beginning, the big one is yet to come.’
Henry paused the screen and looked at Donaldson, then back at the grainy image.
‘That guy, that lad,’ Donaldson said, ‘was born in the UK, educated here, was at college in this town until a couple of months ago — when apparently he quit for no reason… but now we know why, don’t we?’
‘What about his parents?’
‘I haven’t met them,’ Donaldson said, ‘but they own a shop in Bispham and from all accounts they’re devastated.’
‘What about the parents of the lad in custody, the one you stopped?’
‘Zahid Sadiq?’ Donaldson wiped an eye with a finger. ‘His parents are both doctors from Preston, one in a practice here in Blackpool. I have briefly met them. They are… it’s beyond words, really
… cannot believe their precious son had been radicalized. Seems both boys lived double lives. They didn’t even know they’d been to Yemen. Which is where this was probably shot.’
An overwhelming sadness descended on the three of them.
‘Intelligent lads, nice lads — outwardly,’ Donaldson said. ‘And although it sounds cliched, in the hands of a manipulator like Jamil Akram, they didn’t stand a chance. He’s sent so many people, kids like these, to their pointless deaths.’
‘And when he appears on the scene, it’s usually a portent,’ Henry said.
‘Yep.’
‘So how did they come to meet him in the first place?’ Henry asked.
Donaldson shrugged. ‘Probably via a local mosque. Dunno.’ He sounded completely depressed.
Henry clicked the mouse and dragged the video back a few seconds as Rahman, now dead, finished his triumphant speech about his planned glorious death with the words, ‘And this is only the beginning, the big one is yet to come.’ The screen went blank.
Henry felt slightly guilty about having to abandon Donaldson that evening. It was clear his friend wanted to talk things through, mull it all over, but Henry had other plans. First of all the murder squad had to be debriefed. Everyone was due in for an update and a download at nine p.m. Then, from what was gleaned, Henry and Rik had to work out the strategy and tasking for the next day. There was no way he would be finished before eleven.
When he explained this to Donaldson, the American had instantly suggested a late night whiskey in Henry’s conservatory, but Henry had bluffed his way out of that. At least that is what he thought he’d done until Donaldson tilted his head and gave him a squinted look of suspicion. ‘Have you got a date?’ he said. ‘Or are you seeing a hooker? Which one?’
‘Just a rendezvous with a friend,’ Henry said tightly.
‘A kissin’ friend?’
‘None of your business, pal.’
‘So you’re getting back on to the hey-ho?’
‘Just a friend.’
‘Anyone I know?’
‘Why would you?’
Donaldson shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘I need an early night, anyhow. I’m bushed.’
‘Good idea.’
‘Hey, pal,’ Donaldson said. The two men locked eyes meaningfully. ‘If I’m right, it’s fine with me. No judgements from this neck of the woods.’
‘I know.’
‘But I still want to talk to ya, brainstorm a bit, yeah?’
‘Fine.’
The debrief went smoothly. Each pair of investigating detectives pooled their accumulated knowledge of the short and, as it was turning out, rather sordid life of Natalie Philips. Not that her lifestyle made any difference to Henry. He particularly hated it when young people came to sticky ends, hated the thought of a young life snuffed out and the death of possibility. In any murder inquiry, he gave his all. In the case of a youngster, he pushed even harder.
Some good stuff came up. Ex-boyfriend Lewis Kitchen had been found and was due to be pulled in tomorrow. The name of the teacher who supposedly had the hots for Natalie had been unearthed and was also going to be spoken to next day. Some of her friends had been interviewed and a clearer picture of her life was emerging, in that for the past few weeks she had withdrawn from her mates and was being secretive about who she was seeing. There was a stumbling block with her computerized social network contacts, the detectives being unable to access her Facebook account, from which she had recently de-friended most of her contacts. Henry took the opportunity to reveal what had been found inside Natalie and that DNA tests were in the database queue for the three unidentified sperm samples. He told everyone that although Mark Carter remained a good suspect, this investigation was by no means over.
Afterwards he and Rik did next day’s tasking and Henry brought the murder book up to date, which in turn brought him to eleven fifteen p.m. Uneasily he picked up his mobile phone and sent a text, receiving a reply only moments later that said, ‘YES’.
She was waiting for him in the bar of the Hilton Hotel. It was quiet, just a few lonesome looking businessmen staring glumly into spirit glasses, and Alison Marsh sitting in a corner reading a novel. She closed it as he walked across the bar and they smiled warmly, but uncertainly, at each other. Internally he had a very warm glow and a sudden sense of euphoria, even though his throat seemed to close up. She laid the book on the table in front of her,
