Critical Threat Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  The Henry Christie Mystery Series

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  The Henry Christie Mystery Series

  A TIME FOR JUSTICE

  NIGHTMARE CITY

  ONE DEAD WITNESS

  THE LAST BIG JOB

  BACKLASH

  SUBSTANTIAL THREAT

  DEAD HEAT

  BIG CITY JACKS

  PSYCHO ALLEY

  CRITICAL THREAT

  SCREEN OF DECEIT

  CRUNCH TIME

  THE NOTHING JOB

  SEIZURE

  HIDDEN WITNESS

  FACING JUSTICE

  INSTINCT

  FIGHTING FOR THE DEAD

  BAD TIDINGS

  CRITICAL THREAT

  Nick Oldham

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain 2007 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey SM1 1DF.

  First published in the USA 2008 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS INC of

  595 Madison Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10022.

  eBook edition first published in 2013 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2007 by Nick Oldham.

  The right of Nick Oldham to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Oldham, Nick, 1956-

  Critical threat

  1. Christie, Henry (Fictitious character) – Fiction

  2. Police – England – Blackpool – Fiction 3. Murder –

  Investigation – Fiction 4. Terrorism – Prevention – Fiction

  5. Detective and mystery stories

  I. Title

  823.9‵14[F]

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-6550-2 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0101-0 (ePub)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

  To my father, Edward Vincent Oldham.

  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 a
lso 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 B
lackburn, 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.