Critical Threat hc-10 Read online

  Critical Threat

  ( Henry Christie - 10 )

  Nick Oldham

  Nick Oldham

  Critical Threat

  One

  As Sabera walked along that evening she made the fatal mistake of thinking that she was a free woman.

  She was on Victoria Street in Westminster with her new friend Aysha, walking away from Parliament Square, feeling more alive and exhilarated than she’d felt in the last four years. Her life had become so stultifying, as though the pillow of a lifestyle that had been imposed on her by duty and expectation was smothering her. It had been a life of restriction, small-mindedness and fear — and she had been treated like a dog. That was not what she had signed up to, not what she had been promised; an existence of subservience instead of equality and of deep fear and loathing for a man who saw himself, and all other men, as masters. He thought nothing of maltreating her and assaulting her and believed it his right to rape her. Which he had done. Twice.

  In the end she had broken out of the shackles.

  It had taken extreme courage and careful planning on her part to make that break — in the aftermath of the second rape — knowing that once she walked through the door there could never, ever be any hope of a pleasant return.

  For weeks following her departure, she had lived in constant, gut-wrenching terror, causing her to lose most of her hair and more than two stones in weight, to become a bag of bones. She hardly dared to venture out, and then only briefly with trusted friends and always watching, expecting the worst, her heart missing a beat at every unexplained shadow or knock at the door. This, despite having run 250 miles from her hometown to one of the biggest cities in the world where, it was claimed, a person could lose themselves for ever.

  Paradoxically, the urge to return and face the consequences had been quite strong in her in those first few weeks of high tension. But she fought it, as she knew she must. That would have been what everybody would have expected — her to come snivelling home, throwing herself on her husband’s mercy, but Sabera knew he was a man without such a trait. Her life would not have been worth living and the abuse she would have suffered would have been ten times worse … add to that the shame the rest of her family and community would have heaped on her … she could not have survived such a move.

  So she held out, knowing it was the right thing to do. The worst of it was not being able to see her immediate family, mother, father, sister, grandfather, but she did contact them by phone occasionally, ensuring the number she called from was disguised and never telling them where she was. She knew her husband would intimidate and threaten them and they would easily cave in and spill all they knew. If they knew nothing, they could say nothing.

  Now it was six months down the line.

  There had been one close shave, never to be repeated, an incident that was a steep learning curve but which she had survived intact. But even that unpleasant experience was far from her mind whilst strolling in the pleasant evening sunshine past the rear of New Scotland Yard, swinging her handbag as though she didn’t have a care in the world.

  The weight she had lost had now returned, and been redistributed in all the right places. She was dressed in a tight, thigh-hugging knee-length skirt — which did retain some of her in-bred and conditioned modesty, and a lovely cream and gold silk blouse which, whilst it did not accentuate her generous bosom, did not hide it either; four-inch heels on smart black suede ankle boots and meticulously applied make-up completed her stunning appearance.

  Sabera knew she was strikingly beautiful and was now not afraid to show it to the world, to allow others to look at and admire her without her feeling ashamed or as if she was doing something wrong.

  It was as if the world she’d once inhabited was nothing more than a bad, if recurring, nightmare, a world of subservience and near slavery.

  No more.

  She hadn’t gone to university and medical school for all those years to train as a GP suddenly to be informed by her domineering, violent husband that she could no longer practise medicine simply because he said so. It displeased him. Her place was behind a veil in the home, caring for him and their children-to-be. Fortunately she hadn’t managed to conceive; a relief to her, a source of anger for him.

  Now, with the help of friends she had made at university who had also become doctors, she had established herself as a locum for several health centres in the Earl’s Court area of London. She also ran a weekly support group for abused Asian women. She was happy to be earning good money, doing something worthwhile, and feeling truly alive for the first time in years.

  She also had a boyfriend who she was on her way to meet, along with other friends, at a smart Spanish restaurant on the ground floor of a shopping mall opposite Westminster Cathedral.

  They hadn’t made love yet, despite his urges to do so and her own feelings deep inside. It was still something she was wrestling with — being a Muslim, still being married and all the ramifications that came with adultery. However, she knew that giving herself completely to this gentle man was something that would happen. They had kissed and lightly caressed and her whole being had been set on fire by his touch. She knew that the step over the edge into the abyss of total intimacy would be taken soon. Maybe tonight.

  She shivered excitedly at the prospect of him on top of her — or, heavens above, her on top of him. A smile, broad and mischievous, broke across her face, her thoughts causing her to miss the last few words her friend had said to her.

  ‘What? Sorry … my mind drifted,’ she said, giggling.

  ‘I said, there they are.’ Aysha pointed to a group of people seated at the tables on the fenced-off concourse outside the restaurant. Aysha stopped and gripped Sabera’s arm, halting her. She smiled conspiratorially. ‘I think I know where your mind went,’ she said knowingly. The two women looked into each other’s eyes. ‘I know you have your doubts, so make sure this is what you want,’ Aysha cautioned, aware of everything Sabera had gone through to reach this point in her life.

  ‘Thanks — I will.’ They hugged quickly and carried on walking into the mall.

  ‘He is a bit of a dish, though,’ Aysha whispered naughtily out of the corner of her mouth.

  ‘Hands off, he’s mine,’ Sabera hissed.

  They reached the restaurant to the warm greetings of their friends.

  Sabera’s eyes — deep brown, long-lashed — were only for the handsome, dark-skinned man by the name of Sanjay Khan, a GP at one of the health centres where Sabera was locum. They had known each other since medical school. Sabera’s body went limp as Sanjay guided her to the vacant chair he’d saved beside him and whispered words into her ear which made her gasp; simple words no man had ever said to her before: ‘You are beautiful.’

  Eddie Daley could hardly have been said to be a great, or even adequate, private investigator. His self-produced business card, made at a machine in a motorway service area, advertised him as a retired Lancashire Constabulary detective, which was true, but the other words thereon which insinuated he was honest, loyal and had integrity, were certainly not.

  He’d been a sleazy cop, always on the tightrope, before being hounded out of the force following the collapse of a Crown Court trial during which his corruption had been exposed. He had been lucky to keep his pension intact and frozen after twenty-five years of less than honourable service.

  Now, at the age of fifty-three, waiting for his pension which he couldn’t get his hands on until he was fifty-five, he scraped a living as a sleazy PI, specializing in divorce and surveillance. He got his kicks following people round and then screwing up their lives; or, as he termed it, ‘Getting them what they effin’-well deserve.’

  Being twice divorced himself, hung out to
dry by two ex-wives who still hovered like vultures around his thin assets, also waiting to pounce on his pension, Daley was bitter and twisted and knew what he was talking about. By doing the job he did, he was taking a kind of perverted revenge on his wives, both of whom had humiliated him with their affairs, then gone for his cash.

  He didn’t usually get involved with Asians because he thought they were far too complicated. He much preferred good old-fashioned English working-class infidelity — cheap hotels and the back seats of cars — because it was usually pretty straightforward. Asians were bad news — having played a significant part in his downfall in the cops — and more often than not they sorted out their own dirty washing, anyway. He did not get much business from that side of the community, so he’d been surprised to be approached for a job and he had taken it only because he saw it was one he could stretch out and milk; and because, having warned the client that it would take time and money — 250 per day plus travel, accommodation and any other reasonable expenses (a figure he had pulled out of the ether and hoped he’d kept a straight face) — the client did not flinch.

  On the face of it, it was a fairly simple job: locate and trace.

  ‘We had a very big argument and I said things I wish I hadn’t,’ the client blubbered through tears which Daley was certain were false. But it was a good act. ‘She left me. I am devastated and deeply saddened.’ Although he had a hankie to mop his cheeks, Daley wasn’t convinced by the display.

  ‘If an adult doesn’t want to be found or doesn’t want to return home, it’s their choice,’ Daley explained to the man who had introduced himself as Mansur Rashid. ‘And anyway, I thought you lot had inner lines of communication, a bit like a black grape vine?’

  A slight shadow crossed Rashid’s eyes when Daley had said ‘you lot’ — but it was gone in a flash. ‘I’ve tried to find her, but there are millions of Asians in this country and no, we do not have a “black grapevine” as you suggest. I have been searching for her for six months and you are my last hope.’ He looked forlornly at Daley, his saviour.

  ‘Finding folk is my bread and butter,’ Daley said. ‘I do it well. But, y’know’ — his head shook — ‘this one would mean me getting my hands dirty with Asians — no offence intended, mate.’ He pulled himself up sharply with a cough of embarrassment. He’d had numerous courses on race relations whilst in the police and none of the learning had ever gone in, even at the time. ‘So it’d be quite a hard thing for me, being white an’ all that, but I’m sure I could do it.’ It was at that point he’d invented his new daily rate, fully expecting Rashid to back off and scuttle away.

  He didn’t. Rashid simply said, ‘I want my wife back. I want to restart our marriage.’

  ‘I’ll need a thousand up front — and there’s lots of questions I’ll need to ask you about your wife.’

  ‘That is fine.’ Rashid pulled a buff envelope out of his inner jacket pocket and from it eased out a thick wedge of bank notes, making Eddie Daley’s eyes pop open. Rashid counted out the money in twenties.

  Daley counted also, his lips moving almost soundlessly — ‘Twenty … forty … sixty …’ — until Rashid raised his head and pushed the neat pile across the table, sliding the envelope back into his jacket. Instinctively Daley’s hand slapped down on the money and virtually snatched it from under Rashid’s nose before he had a chance to change his mind.

  Daley walked slowly past the Spanish restaurant, inhaling the aroma of garlic, seeing someone tucking into a plateful of seafood paella, both of which made his stomach turn. Personally, he couldn’t abide continental food. He was a pie and chips kind of guy — as evidenced by his increasingly rounded figure — and garlic in particular made him want to vomit. Still, each to their own, he thought.

  The place was heaving, inside and out, even so early in the evening. Daley noticed that most of the customers — well, a fair few of them — had a swarthy look about them. Not many pasty white English folks digging into greasy, olive oil-laden dishes, he thought proudly.

  He passed within a few feet of his target. She, and her companions, did not even glance in his direction. Which was good, how it should be. A follower should simply blend into the background.

  Daley’s piggy eyes lingered for a few moments on Sabera, but not too long. He’d been tailing her for a few days and liked what he saw. A real dusky maiden with long, lustrous black hair, dark brown, shining eyes and a beautiful face attached to a slender, well-proportioned body by a smooth, long neck. He could understand why Rashid wanted her back. Daley imagined she would be considered to be a bit of a trophy wife within the Asian community. At the same time he could see why she wouldn’t want to come back to boring Blackburn, stick a veil over her head and hide her face for the rest of her life.

  From what Daley had seen, she had a much freer, more enjoyable life here in London.

  He shrugged mentally as he passed the restaurant, took his eyes off Sabera and veered across the concourse to an Italian restaurant at which he could sit outside and keep tabs on her. It wasn’t his problem, he thought, as he settled his bulk into a metallic-backed chair and ordered a straight coffee — none of that frothy shit — and a brandy. His job was to find her and report back, even though, strangely for him, he felt a little uncomfortable in doing so.

  Something to do with Rashid. Something seedy about the guy.

  Still, not his problem. It was husband and wife business. He just had his job to do, sod any other issues.

  His drinks arrived. The coffee was an Americano and he winced at its strength, but it tasted good, had a real kick, especially with four sachets of brown sugar tipped into it. Just what he needed to get himself going after such an arduous assignment.

  He chuckled. As if!

  He took out the crumpled photo of Sabera that Rashid had given him, flattened out the creases and looked at it. He’d been working on the case for five days, which meant he’d earned an extra?250 plus expenses on top of the grand up front. He’d get at least another day out of it because he intended to let it drag on past midnight. On top of that he intended to claim a success fee for finding her — say,?200? He was sure Rashid would be able to afford that.

  Five days of hard graft. Digging, travelling, overnight stops, questioning people, making diligent enquiries. Eating expensive — English — meals.

  At least, that is what he would be telling Mr Rashid, and producing all the receipts if necessary, even if he had to forge them on his computer.

  Truth was, Daley had found Sabera on the second day without actually setting foot out of Blackburn.

  So easy. Telephone, combined with the Internet. Wonderful tools for an investigator.

  By simply using the information furnished by Rashid, doing a bit of lateral thinking, digging through a few archives, trying to put himself in Sabera’s shoes — she was ambitious, a doctor, had friends from university and med school; that and going off the odd snippet of gossip Rashid had related, mainly that Sabera had always wanted to live in London, Daley had locked on to her.

  It was the medical thing that was the main drive, that and that she would probably be using her unmarried name of Ismat. Countless hours of trawling through Internet sites for doctors’ surgeries and health centres was where Daley began and ended his search.

  It had been hellishly boring, sitting at the computer with a beer in one hand and his lady friend either perched on a knee or occasionally kneeling in front of him.

  He worked from a variety of search engines, knowing it would only be a matter of time before he struck pay dirt and found Mrs Rashid, nee Ismat, the wayward little minx that she was. It was unlikely that she was a practice partner, but Daley guessed that she could probably find work fairly easily as a locum, and quite a few websites he visited even named the locum doctors who were associated with surgeries, often providing photos and little pen pictures of them too. There were also websites of agencies that represented locums doing much the same.

  Daley eventually found Sabera on the
website of a health centre in Earl’s Court, London. She was using her maiden name, as suspected, and her photograph and a few sketchy details about her qualifications were posted on the site, too.

  If she had been trying to cover her tracks, she hadn’t done the best of jobs. But that was par for the course for most runaways. Somewhere along the line they usually had to put their heads above the parapet, usually when they felt it was safe enough, or they got sloppy. That was when they got spotted. On the whole, people didn’t know how to cover their tracks, and the electronic world, in which every contact left a trace, meant it was particularly hard to stay hidden when people like Daley — who was by no means a web wizard — were after them. Nor did people realize they were being followed — it just wasn’t human nature to look over the shoulder — and nor did they realize they were being photographed, even when the guy with the camera was within spitting distance.

  Daley fished out his small but powerful state-of-the-art digital camera and switched it on. He was sitting perhaps fifty feet from Sabera and the zoom picked her out a treat, with her head tossed back, sexily revealing the full length of her desirable neck, her hair shimmering like in some sort of shampoo advert on TV, a wonderful, happy smile on her face.

  ‘That’s gonna get wiped off, soon,’ Daley mumbled as he fiddled with his camera. His job was made easier because a man in another group of people at the restaurant was taking photos of his mates. ‘Always hide in plain sight,’ the PI said to himself as his two snaps and their accompanying flashes simply became part of the background, drawing no attention to him, even though he was sitting alone.

  He examined the results on the display, using the zoom to really focus in sharply on Sabera’s face and neck, even down to the unusual pendant on the chain around her long neck. Two good shots. Definitely her. Job done. Seventeen hundred quid in the back pocket — tax-free, of course.