Instinct Read online

  Donaldson had been very much alongside Henry over the last year or so as he crashed through an emotional roller-coaster ride, rather like being on the ‘Big One’ time and time again, so he knew what his friend had been through. Hope, despair, tragedy. It was only in the last few weeks that Donaldson, at Henry’s insistence, had backed off and given him his own space.

  ‘What’s the job?’ Donaldson asked.

  Henry drew a breath. ‘One likely to attract lots of attention and scrutiny. Minute fucking scrutiny. Female teenager murdered, something the press will love to bits . . . and I guess I’m not up to it.’ He shrugged pitifully and swallowed something hard and sour tasting at the admission.

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Just feel I’ve lost all my drive, my rhyme and reason. I typed out my intention to retire report yesterday, you know? Three lines and a date. Just waiting to be printed off and submitted.’

  ‘That what you want?’ Donaldson lounged back and watched Henry grapple with the question.

  ‘I have no idea what I want.’

  ‘Let me ask you another question. What were you put on this earth to do?’

  Henry knew the answer, but fought the response.

  ‘But more importantly, H,’ Donaldson said, ‘let me tab back to the previous question and ask not what you want, but what would Kate have wanted you to do?’

  Donaldson had gone. Henry was alone again, swirling the dregs of his coffee, watching the grains as though they might give him inspiration, like reading tea leaves. Nothing. He refitted the plastic lid and put the cup in the bin before leaving the restaurant and stepping back into the clear, warm morning.

  He crossed the prom and retraced his earlier walk, not so quiet now as the day came to life and people and traffic began to move. He walked up to North Pier, Blackpool Tower on his right, but his gaze was drawn across to the north-west, where the hills of the Lake District were etched clearly on the horizon. It was a place Kate had loved and where Henry, following her wishes, had scattered her ashes.

  Everything had happened so quickly, no preamble, no warning. Henry, emerging from a very bad situation in the village of Kendleton, having been shot in the left shoulder – not seriously, as it happened – then had to deal with the detritus that included police corruption and multiple murder, including the death of a policewoman. He had been overwhelmed with the paperwork and interviews and inquests and trials and the CPS and the forensics and the press. The list seemed endless. His mind was completely waterlogged with tasks and it had been a month later, during a breather from the mountain of statements he’d brought home to read that, seemingly, for the first time in weeks, he’d looked at Kate and thought, ‘She looks as whacked as me.’

  Her words in response to his enquiry had been simple and uncomplicated. ‘Henry, I need to tell you something.’

  He put down his highlighter pen, saw the tear emerge from her right eye and tumble down her face, and that night he held her tightly as they both cried in each other’s arms.

  It was a lump in her left breast. Though they acted quickly and decisively, the cancer could not be halted, spreading aggressively through her body. They fought, she fought, but then reached a point when she looked exhaustedly with half-blind watery eyes at Henry and he knew it was over. It had won. She had lost and her final weeks were a mixture of ecstasy, agony, happiness and hopelessness, but above all dignity and love.

  The last month of her life was spent in a hospice where the speed of deterioration was terrifying.

  And Henry held her as she died quietly.

  Now, Henry looked out to the Lakes, his mind whirling with all of those images. He had immersed himself in work for the last two months, even though his heart was not in it. He had thought this was the best way to tackle things. But it always felt as though he was running ahead of something that was coming up from behind with the intention of smothering him. He always knew it would catch up and maybe that morning it had.

  The opening chords of Wild Horses interrupted his reverie. He took his phone out and saw it was Rik Dean calling.

  Henry had a quick thought. He knew exactly what Kate would want him to do. He also knew what he had to do. He had to stop running – and he also had to find a killer. Because that was what he had been put on this earth to do. And because there was a young girl lying dead on a grass verge and a family who needed him to do his job.

  He thumbed the answer button and put the phone to his ear.

  THREE

  Henry threaded his way through the narrow corridors of Blackpool nick. They seemed fit to bursting with staff, unusual for such an early hour, but he could tell they had been brought in for whatever the operation was that Donaldson was part of. There were firearms officers, already tooled up, support unit officers, normal patrol officers, a dog handler – minus dog – and various ranks from sergeant to superintendent, as well as several plain clothes officers and some shady looking individuals Henry did not recognize. He assumed they were spooks from MI5, MI6, SIS and various other clandestine agencies.

  There was a scramble for the lift as the briefing was being held on the fourth floor. Henry eased his way though the throng to get through to the CID office which was in the ground floor annexe.

  As he stepped through to the large foyer that had once been the main entrance to the police station – the entrance having now been relocated more practically to street level on the other side of the building to allow easier public access – Henry came face to face with four men entering through the old front door. They had walked across from the police-owned level of the multi-storey car park adjacent to the station.

  He recognized three of the men, the fourth he did not know at all.

  One of the three was Robert Fanshaw-Bayley, Lancashire’s chief constable – known as FB – someone Henry had grown to know all too well over the years; with him was PC Bill Robbins, a firearms trainer who also specialized in putting together any firearms aspects to operational orders. The third man he recognized was a guy called Martin Beckham, and seeing him confirmed Henry’s suspicions that spooks were out and about. Beckham was a mysterious shadow of a man and Henry had encountered him a couple of times in the past. He was usually introduced as being from the Home Office. That may have been true, but Henry knew he was also a high ranking spymaster.

  As the men came brusquely through the door, they were heads-down focused on some paperwork being shuffled between them, and they spoke in hushed, hurried tones, not even noticing Henry who, gallantly, held the door open for these clearly very important persons so they could get into the innards of the police station. He refrained from bowing.

  Only Bill Robbins glanced up, surprised to see Henry, as they fell into single file to pass through, with Bill bringing up the rear.

  ‘Henry,’ he said, looking slightly guilty.

  ‘Bill. How goes it?’

  Bill stopped, but the other three went on and stopped at the lift, shouldering their way to the front of the queue.

  Henry and Bill also went back a long way. In the recent past Henry had used the firearms officer on various investigations and tried to get him a role on FMIT, but the chief was having none of it. Bill did get a temporary role on the branch after his involvement in a shooting where it was quickly established that he had acted reasonably in the circumstances. He had then returned to firearms training, but had stayed in the classroom ever since, as well as advising on firearms operations.

  ‘I’m good, Henry. You?’

  ‘Poor to fair,’ Henry said. He saw the lift doors opening and it was only then that FB came out of a deep confab with Beckham and the other man, and realized it was Henry who’d held the door open for them. FB mumbled something to the two men, who stepped into the lift and held the doors open, and came over to Henry, who noticed that the chief had become even porkier than usual.

  ‘Henry – didn’t see you there,’ he said unapologetically. FB rarely acknowledged lackeys at the best of times, unless he was on a missi
on. ‘Head down, concentrating,’ he added. ‘Anyway, how are you doing?’

  He gave the chief the answer he wanted to hear. ‘Brilliant.’

  ‘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 want to sit down and break bread with the American.

  ‘I’ll pass,’ Donaldson said. He saw the relief on FB’s chubby face.

  Beckham noticed Donaldson’s troubled expression. ‘Is there something else?’

  ‘I’d like to speak to you.’

  ‘Mm, not now. In due course.’

  ‘Now.’

  ‘OK – go ahead,’ he relented easily.

  ‘In private.’

  ‘Oh, it’s not about this intelligence sharing business, is it?’ Beckham breathed with irritation.

  ‘More fundamental than that.’

  ‘What then? You can speak freely – there’s no one else here but us.’

  ‘OK, it’s about basic officer safety.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘This – this briefing,’ Donaldson said, his arms flying out in opposite directions, a gesture of exasperation.

  ‘What about it?’ Beckham said defensively.

  ‘You haven’t really told the officers everything, have you?’

  FB shot a troubled look at Beckham, who said, ‘They know what they need to know.’

  ‘Oh?’ Behind Beckham the screen still showed the two faces of the men who were that morning’s targets. ‘Don’t you think a little more enlightenment would have been prudent?’

  Beckham’s eyes hooded over as though he was drawing a veil of secrecy. ‘In what way?’

  ‘Maybe you shoulda filled in the blanks for these guys and gals who’re going out there this morning. One of the reasons I trailed up the motorway in the early hours was because I spent six hours yesterday afternoon digging—’