‘What do you mean?’
‘Like we said, they don’t always reveal all.’
‘As far as I can tell we’re pulling in a couple of lads who are up to no good, then had an extra warning they could be dangerous.’
‘More complex than that. Sometimes the little-wigs open up the path to the bigwigs.’
‘Explain yourself.’
Donaldson regarded Bill. He had known him a while now, been involved in various investigations with him and found him sound and reliable. Dour, but likeable. ‘If I do, and you blab, I’ll have to kill you — you know that?’
‘Only if you get in the double-tap first.’
‘OK — for your ears only. The two men — lads really — that you’ve been told to pull in have just recently returned from an extended trip to Yemen. They’ve been on extensive training and indoctrination courses.’
‘Brainwashing?’
‘Fundamentalism… so, yeah, brainwashing. Also probably trained to use a variety of weapons and how to make bombs.’
Bill swerved at this revelation like a cat had just leapt in front of the car. ‘They didn’t quite tell us that.’
‘No.’ It was a wistful word.
‘So really they’ve told us fuck all.’
‘Because if it comes to nothing, it’ll all be played down…’
‘Which is why it has to look like a routine stop-check.’
‘And if something is found, then they’ll be whisked down to Paddington Green police station in London and interrogated.’
‘Interviewed, you mean?’ Bill said.
‘Interrogated.’
‘OK.’ Bill got the less than subtle hint. ‘So they’ve been trained — does that answer why you’re here, Karl?’
‘Do you recall the bombing of the American Embassy in Kenya in 1998?’
Bill scratched his balding dome. ‘One of many, but I recall it.’
‘A guy named Jamil Akram is one of the principal bomb-makers affiliated to certain terrorist organizations. First made his name making car bombs, more recently he’s been mass producing body packs for suicide bombers. Also a weapons expert, particularly small arms.’
‘And your interest is?’
‘He had a major hand in that embassy bombing — with others, of course. I lost two good friends in that blast and I don’t forget easily.’ His voice became brittle.
‘And somehow he’s connected to these guys today?’
‘In Yemen they were at a camp at which Akram is known to be a facilitator. The thinking is, I guess, although I can’t be sure, that something will be uncovered by arresting these two today that will lead us closer to Akram. Nailing him, even with a missile fired from a drone, would be a major scalp, one which MI5 would like to claim for their own.’
The door opened as Henry and Rik walked up the pathway to the house. The woman standing there, maybe only in her late thirties, looked haggard and exhausted, a tatty dressing gown wrapped tightly around her, hair scraped and pinned carelessly back.
‘I know you’re the police,’ she said shakily.
Henry flipped out his warrant card to confirm her suspicion. ‘Mrs Philips, I’m Detective Superintendent Christie from the Force Major Investigation Team and this is Detective…’
Her face froze in an expression of horror. She had been able to recognize that two plain clothes cops were at her door, but when the first one introduced himself and stated his rank… that was when she knew, and it was as if an invisible weight had struck her. She sagged, swayed, her hand sliding down the door jamb. Henry lurched forwards to catch her before she hit the ground.
‘You’re going to be bored,’ Bill said to Donaldson. They were parked up in a street about half a mile away from where the targets had their flat, the street on which their car was also parked. The purpose of the operation was to sit on that car, which was being observed by two cops in the back of a van, wait for the subjects to get in and drive off, then stop them in an appropriate place. Four other plain cars, each with two armed officers on board, a police dog van and a personnel carrier with six uniformed support unit officers were also placed in well thought out, discreet locations, ready to move and pounce once the target car was rolling.
There was nothing to say that the car would move that day. However, the operation would continue until it did.
Donaldson yawned, folded his arms and sank low in his seat, closed his eyes, felt his stomach rumble and said, ‘Possibly.’
‘How good do you think the Intel is?’ Bill asked.
‘Hard to say.’
‘Who will have done all the legwork?’
Donaldson opened one eye and squinted through it at Bill. ‘I always thought you were the laconic type, not loquacious.’
Bill frowned, decided it was a compliment and said, ‘Thanks.’
‘And in answer to your question, I don’t know. MI5, MI6, SIS, Special Branch, Counter Terrorism…’
Bill was used to acting on intelligence received from unknown sources, usually crims with a grudge or a debt to repay. It was the way things were done these days, with many firewalls between informant and the officers who then acted on the information. It protected people and he guessed that in this case, the firewalls were pretty much impregnable. He yawned, too. Then said, ‘Not much of an Asian population around here.’
‘No, but plenty of white holiday-makers,’ Donaldson replied and snapped open his eyes as a horrible thought struck him.
Clare Philips was a single mother and Natalie, as far as Henry knew from the information on the MFH file, was her only child. Henry didn’t like to stereotype, but there was no doubt that Ms Philips was of a sort he had encountered many times during his service. Not that she was a bad woman, simply a victim of upbringing and circumstance. She lived alone in a tiny council house on Shoreside estate, one of Blackpool’s most deprived areas. She was unemployed, survived on benefits, shoplifting, some part-time piece work — as evidenced by the hundreds of pairs of shoes stacked precariously in the living room that she was lacing up — and had had a succession of crappy boyfriends. The last characteristic was Henry’s own guess, but he’d be happy to lay down money — ‘a pound to a pinch of shit’ — it was true. A series of feckless men who used her for one thing only, and he could see she was a good-looking lady behind the rather haggard face that she presented that morning.
But none of that mattered.
What was important was that it was almost certain she had lost a daughter. And no doubt it was a daughter she loved with all her heart.
‘I’m truly, truly sorry,’ Henry said gently.
Clare was sitting on the battered settee, staring blankly but disbelievingly at a photograph of Natalie. Rik Dean came in from the kitchen and handed her a mug of milky tea, laced with sugar. She took it absently.
‘The thing is,’ Henry went on, ‘although the body we have found fits Natalie’s description, we can only be certain after formal identification.’ Clare nodded. ‘That means you, Clare.’
‘I know.’ She swallowed. Her eyes were ringed with red. ‘When?’
‘Later today. We’re not exactly sure when.’
She nodded again. Henry eased the photograph from her fingers and looked at it, a posed picture of Natalie, smiling up at the camera, wearing a grey and pink silk scarf.
Henry and Rik exchanged glances. Henry said, ‘I know this is a terrible time, but we really need to ask you some questions about Natalie and her…’ He was going to say ‘life’, but changed the word, realizing the girl hadn’t really had one to speak of yet. Instead he said, ‘Y’know, the things that were going on for her, who she knew, boyfriends if any, her mates, comings and goings. It’s vital we build up a detailed picture of her.’ Clare nodded numbly. ‘Can I just ask a quick question, first?’ Henry indicated the photograph. ‘This scarf, was she wearing it when you last saw her? It’s not mentioned in the clothing description on the Missing from Home forms.’ He did not recall seeing it at the murder scene either.
