‘I’m glad. Can’t let a thing like that affect you too much. Anyway, got to go — big op this morning, all hush- hush. You know how it is.’ He patted Henry’s shoulder like he was a pet, jerked his head at Bill for him to get a move on, then joined his colleagues in the waiting lift.
Dumbfounded by the crass lack of anything — sympathy, empathy, whatever — Henry silently mouthed a couple of choice swear words in the chief’s direction which expanded the two letter acronym, FB. Shaking his head and laughing mirthlessly to himself, wondering why he had expected anything more from the guy who hadn’t even sent a sympathy card after Kate’s death, Henry allowed the door to close then walked across the foyer to the CID office.
Karl Donaldson took up a position at the rear of the briefing room, lounging against the wall and watching proceedings with a slight air of detachment. This was because he wasn’t truly involved in the events planned for that day and was only here because he’d picked up a whisper and demanded to be allowed into the action.
In truth, he was extremely annoyed by the course of events, but at the same time he understood that occasionally there were lapses in communication between agencies. People, after all, were only human.
He spent much of his time filtering through intelligence, particularly concerning terrorism and following suspects, sometimes physically, but more often via bank and credit card databases and CCTV images from cameras in airports, ports and train stations. Or listening over and over to intercepted, crackly cell phone conversations between people who might be involved in terrorism. And much, much more besides. And then, if there was anything that might be of use to secret services or police forces in Europe, he would pass on what he had learned, after it had been sanitized. In return he expected the same consideration, but sometimes there were blips. Usually by mistake, but occasionally on purpose, because Donaldson knew that the sharing of information between agencies was still a relatively new concept and the old adage ‘knowledge is power’ still held sway in some quarters.
He would have very much liked to have been informed that Lancashire Constabulary were running a CT — counter terrorism — operation that morning when they expected to make arrests, rather than find out through a back door and have to get fractious with people. He hated discovering such things by mistake. He felt he should have been told days, maybe weeks ago that the cops were moving in on some suspected terrorists. Not found out purely through an illicit conversation the day before with a lady called Edina Marchmaine, who worked for a shady department in Whitehall. Donaldson had met her during a multi-agency manhunt for a wanted terrorist a few years earlier, struck up a rapport with her that had continued. She fed him occasional titbits of information, none of it necessarily earth shattering, but just the occasional juicy one that she thought he should know about — without breaking the Official Secrets Act.
Donaldson knew the relationship had certain hazards — especially for her — but as an intelligence analyst he was reluctant to cut out any source of useful information that might come his way.
‘Gentlemen… ladies… others,’ the chief constable said, bringing the briefing to order as he took to the slightly raised stage at the end of the room. The hubbub settled quickly, a few chairs scraped, some coffee slurping could be heard and the munching of bacon sandwiches, the provision of which Donaldson found somewhat ironic given the nature of today’s targets. FB went on, ‘Thank you all for coming. I apologize about the short notice of this, but as you’ll understand, operations like this sometimes cannot be planned over long periods of time owing to their very nature. So, without further ado, please let me introduce Mr Martin Beckham from the Home Office, who will give you a brief overview, then we’ll get down to tactics and get you out there.’
The very well turned out and groomed Martin Beckham stepped on to the stage, adjusting his wire-framed spectacles, reminding Donaldson of an SS torturer. He was a soft looking man, slightly pudgy around the edges but with a core of ice.
He focused his attention on the briefing as surveillance shots of two young Asian men were projected on to the screen behind Beckham and the room lights were dimmed.
In the ground floor annexe, Henry was talking to Rik Dean about the murder of a teenage girl who, it was almost certain, was called Natalie Philips and who had been reported as missing from home by her mother the night before. Rik had compared the clothing the dead girl was wearing with the clothes Natalie’s mother had described her as wearing when she last saw her. It matched. He also compared a photo he’d taken on his phone with the actual Missing From Home file photo, the one that had been texted to him at the scene. They were identical.
‘Based on what we know — that’s her,’ Rik told Henry. ‘Without a formal ID, DNA and/or dental check, of course.’
‘What’s the full story?’ Henry asked. He took the MFH report from Rik’s fingers and skim read it whilst listening.
‘Bust-up with mum over usual crap: boyfriends, home times, college work. Two nights ago she sneaks out during the soaps, it’s believed, and she’s not there at bedtime.’
‘What did the mother do about it?’
‘Nothing on that night. She’s been out overnight plenty of times, so it wasn’t really an issue. She is eighteen, so the mum only got anxious when she didn’t come home after college next day. Then she called us.’
‘Then what was done?’
Rik shifted slightly uncomfortably. ‘Er… details taken but not circulated. As I said, she’d been out before.’
‘Right,’ Henry said, unimpressed.
‘Mm — and it wasn’t until she didn’t land at college yesterday morning, then didn’t come home for tea last night, or make contact with mum, that she was reported missing formally.’
‘Circulated by us, you mean?’
Rik nodded. Henry counted back on his fingers. ‘So we have a very wide window when Natalie’s unaccounted for? When no one did anything.’
‘Hindsight,’ Rik said defensively.
Henry exhaled tiredly. ‘Which never goes down as a brilliant argument in front of the media or a coroner or a Crown Court judge.’
He then realized he was being patronizing when Rik said, ‘Thanks for that, boss.’
‘Pleasure. Has the Home Office pathologist turned up yet?’
‘At the scene,’ Rik confirmed.
‘Shall we head back there?’
Rik hesitated and looked uncertainly at Henry.
‘What?’ Henry said.
‘Are you… er…’
‘I’m OK, Rik. Just a minor blip on the recovery chart. Probably happen from time to time and I thank you for what you did.’
‘Hey — it’s OK. We could end up as family. We need to stick together and all that.’
‘God forbid,’ Henry muttered, causing Rik to jolt. ‘Just kidding.’ He shooed Rik out of the CID office ahead of him so he couldn’t see the expression of alarm on his face. There was every chance Rik could become Henry’s brother in law as, confounding all predictions, Rik and Henry’s sister — two people who, historically, jumped into bed with virtually anyone of the opposite sex — seemed to be very settled. And now they had got engaged, much to Henry’s shock, and happiness, of course.
Having been briefed the officers filed out to commence their allocated duties.
Karl Donaldson, seething, pushed himself off the back wall and weaved through the exiting bodies to the stage on which the taskmasters, FB, Beckham, a uniformed chief superintendent and another man, had clustered for a heads-together. Donaldson nodded at Bill Robbins, a man he’d known for some while now, who was leaving the room grim-faced.
Donaldson stood in front of the stage, folded his arms and waited for the gaggle of the high and mighty to break up. FB happened to spot him out of the corner of his eye. Beckham also glanced over and acknowledged him.
‘I see you managed to get here,’ Beckham remarked.
Donaldson nodded — an early hours’ trip up the motorway had been how. Now he was tired and angry.
‘You’re more than welcome to accompany us to the dining room for some breakfast,’ Beckham said. ‘It’s just a matter of waiting now to see what transpires.’
FB didn’t look overkeen on Beckham’s invitation. He and Donaldson went back a lot of years and they had never quite seen eye to eye, although they had forged a grudging respect for each other. But not enough for FB to
