Critical Threat (34 page)

‘That bastard!' Iqbal hacked up and spat. ‘What's he done?'

‘Do you know where he is?' Henry asked again. ‘I need to locate him.'

‘No, we don't,' the woman said. ‘And we don't want to.'

Another man appeared behind her, Henry guessing this was her husband.

‘What's going on?' he asked, his eyes taking in the scene.

‘This policeman wants to talk to Najma,' she explained.

‘Why?'

‘I don't know … when I saw the police car, I thought they'd come about Sabera for some reason.'

‘Why Najma?' the father asked.

‘It's not about Najma, it's about that Mansur scum,' Iqbal blurted.

‘You haven't come about Sabera?' the father said.

‘No … look, please,' Henry said, aware this situation might well descend into farce if he wasn't careful, especially when he noticed a fourth person standing behind the father, a young lad in his early teens, bobbing about on the balls of his feet, trying to see what was going on. Henry executed a chopping motion with the edges of his hands. ‘I'm trying to trace the whereabouts of Mansur Rashid, that's all. I thought Najma might know where he was. If you know, it'll save me talking to her.'

He felt a bit of a fraud not letting on about Sabera, but he didn't want to complicate matters further at that moment. Time was critical, He glanced at his watch. Condoleezza Rice should just about be arriving at her first venue.

‘We don't know where Najma is,' the father said sadly. ‘But she works for Rashid and spends a lot of time with him, too. She's become very influenced by him and his radical views. We're very worried about her. And we're worried about Sabera, his wife, our other daughter.'

‘I know where Najma might be,' Iqbal interjected, raising a finger. He looked at Bill and the Ford Galaxy. ‘If I get a ride in that, I could take you.'

I
qbal positioned himself like a VIP in the middle of the back seat so he could lean forwards between Henry and Bill to direct them. He was chewing that sort of unidentifiable paste again, giving his breath a sweet tang.

Both officers leaned outwards to put a bit of distance between themselves and the old man.

‘Tell me about Rashid,' Henry said as they set off, leaving a total of five people now standing at the door, another two relatives having emerged from inside the house.

‘He's an extremist, always winding people up against the Brits,' Iqbal said, chewing his cud. ‘Go down Preston New Road towards town,' he instructed Bill.

‘What does he do for a living?'

‘Owns two petrol stations, two Indian restaurants, three shops, lots of property and drives fear into people's hearts. Everyone is terrified of him, but the young kids – teenagers – think he's great cos he's always on about bombing and fundamentalism and stuff. I just think he's a gangster using religion as a means to an end, but I'm an old guy, so what do I know, except I love this country. It's been good to me.'

‘And he's married to your granddaughter, is that right?'

‘Sabera, yeah.' He looked glum. ‘It was an arranged marriage, but turned bad. He treated her horribly and eventually she did a runner, and to be honest, we didn't blame her. If only she'd talked to us, though. We would have understood. We're very liberal, you know. Haven't seen her since … we're very worried about her, actually. We think he may have done something to her, but we don't know for sure.'

For the moment that was a path Henry did not want to venture down. Maybe later. His priority was to find Rashid and Akbar and hopefully stop a terrorist atrocity from occurring. The murder investigation could be put on hold for a few hours.

‘Has he ever been to your house in Accrington?' Henry asked.

‘Oh yes, he was thinking about buying a house in the same row and had a good look around mine to see what it was like.'

‘Did he go into the attic?'

‘Yes – he was up there for ages, actually.'

‘And did he buy a house in the row?'

‘Dunno.'

Henry churned it over. That explained the escape route. And I'll bet Rashid is the owner of the house that was raided, probably through some innocent intermediary, Henry guessed. Something to follow up, if it wasn't already being done by other parties.

‘So what's Rashid done?' Iqbal asked. ‘Not planning to kill Condoleezza Rice, is he?' he laughed, then stopped abruptly when he saw the expressions on the faces of the two coppers. ‘He bloody is, isn't he?' the old man gasped, shocked.

‘We think Rashid and another man are planning to assassinate her and I'm trying to find out where he is,' Henry admitted.

The old man had slumped back in his seat, his hands laid on his chest, a stunned expression on his face, which had seeped a pale grey colour, similar to the shade he'd gone during the car chase.

‘Are you all right?' Henry asked worriedly, hoping the old guy wasn't going to expire in the back of the car.

He nodded, leaned forward again and said with urgency, ‘Down here, turn right into Montague Street … Najma could be working in the shop at one of Rashid's petrol stations on Preston Old Road, that's what she usually does … if she's not there, I know where his other places of business are.' He licked his lips and said, ‘Bastard,' under his sweet breath.

According to the radio, Rice, aka ‘the Package', had arrived safely at the first venue.

She was still alive.

Bill drove down the steep Montague Street, then at the bottom turned right into Preston Old Road, which snaked in a westerly direction out of Blackburn. The first mile or so of it was largely car showrooms, industrial units, shops and other business premises, before it became more residential further out of town.

‘Next petrol station on the left,' Iqbal said.

About two hundred metres ahead Henry could see a BP garage with a large, wide forecourt and a shop. ‘What do you think?' he asked Bill.

‘Pull up, go in?'

Bill drew the Galaxy on to the forecourt next to one of the pumps. Not an unusual sight as police vehicles are always filled up at local garages these days. A couple of other cars were at the pumps and there was a customer in the shop, browsing through the magazines.

A young Asian girl sat behind the counter.

‘That her?' Henry asked.

Iqbal peered through the windscreen. ‘My eyes aren't as good as they used to be, but yes.'

‘OK. Mr Iqbal, you stay in the car. You and me go in, Bill.'

They strolled together across the forecourt and into the shop. A customer ahead of them moved away from the counter and left the shop as they stepped in. As they approached the counter, Henry saw her name badge: Najma Ismat.

A shadow crossed her face as she watched the two men come up to her, her eyes flicking from Bill's uniform to the battered face of Henry Christie.

Henry saw the family resemblance in Najma. She was less stunning than Sabera, but still very attractive, although her nose was quite hooked and her eyes were set deep and dark in her face.

Henry fished out his warrant card and leaned on the counter. ‘Najma – I'm DCI Christie …' She immediately glanced round to the door behind her which led to a small office at the back of the shop.

‘Yes?'

‘Where is Mansur Rashid?'

‘I don't … what?' she blubbered, flustered. ‘Why would I know, and if I did, why should I tell you?' she barked defensively, pulling herself together quite quickly, giving Henry a haughty, arrogant look … because of which he decided to give it to her right between the eyes. The time for pussyfooting around had long since gone.

‘Because he killed your sister, Sabera. That seems a pretty good reason to tell me.'

Najma winced as though Henry had applied an electric shock to her. She shook her head in denial. ‘I don't know what you're talking about. Sabera's still alive, living down south somewhere.'

‘When did you last hear from her?'

Behind the officers, another customer entered the shop. Henry spoke out of the side of his mouth to Bill, keeping his eyes on Najma. ‘Get him out and lock the door.'

A car also pulled up at a pump on the forecourt and the driver unhooked the petrol nozzle. A buzzer beeped and a button started flashing on the control panel in front of Najma. She pressed it automatically and the man started filling his tank.

‘A long time ago. Months,' she said.

‘Does that not strike you as odd?'

‘I fell out with her.' She was tight lipped.

Henry had come prepared. He took a folded, but slightly crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket, unfolded it and laid it out on the counter. It was a photograph of Sabera, showing her laughing, glowing whilst she sat in a Spanish restaurant.

‘A day after this, she was dead,' he said brutally. ‘That was six months ago. She's only just been identified.'

Najma's face sagged.

The customer who had filled his car up was now at the shop door. Bill, who had nudged the other customer out of the shop and locked the door, mee-mawed at him to wait. There was a bit of a queue building up.

‘Mansur said he'd spoken to her recently.'

‘Mansur's lying. He found her, abducted her, murdered her,' Henry said, not one bit liking what he was doing.

‘No … you're wrong. I know he hired a private investigator to trace her, but he said he'd spoken to her and … and …' Her voice trailed off into the ether.

Najma sat back on the stool behind her, stunned.

‘Where is he?' Henry said slowly. ‘If you know, you must tell me, if only for your sister's sake.' He was praying that she didn't react so badly to the news that she became hysterical and impossible to handle.

Another car drew on to the forecourt. The buzzer on the control panel sounded as the driver removed the nozzle from the pump. ‘Listen, we don't have a lot of time and I need to find Mansur rapidly. If you know where he is, tell me.'

‘Boss,' Bill called from across the shop, ‘the package is preparing to move from venue one,' he said, referring to Condoleezza Rice.

Henry nodded, but did not turn. His eyes bore into Najma.

‘Boss,' Bill called again. Henry looked round this time and Bill pointed out of the shop door. He saw that Iqbal had got out of the ARV and was now at the shop door.

‘Keep him out.' He twisted back to Najma. ‘Where is he?'

Najma glared up at him, sheer bloody defiance in her eyes. She stood up and spat at him. ‘You are lying. I need to tell you nothing.'

Henry wiped the spittle from his sore face, beginning to simmer. Not much more and he'd be at boiling point, but he kept himself under control.

‘He killed your sister, strangled her, beat her, drowned her and burned her body and he's also got his hooks into you, hasn't he … if you need protection, then I'll give it, but tell me where he is now!'

Suddenly Iqbal emerged from the office behind the counter, having found his way into the shop via the rear door. He had overheard Henry's last few lines to Najma and his face was contorted with rage and grief.

‘Granddad!' Najma exclaimed on seeing him.

‘Najma – tell this man everything he needs to know, you foolish girl.'

‘But he's lying … can't you see he's lying? They all lie. They hate us.'

Iqbal's open hand came from nowhere as he cracked her across the face and sent her crashing against the cigarette shelves next to her shoulder. ‘This man does not lie,' he screamed. ‘Mansur is evil. You have come under his spell. You must speak or more people will die.' He raised his hand. She cowered.

‘Iqbal – no,' Henry said, leaning across the counter and gently taking the old man's arm.

‘Sometimes it is the only way.'

‘Maybe, maybe.' Henry looked at Najma, who was down on her haunches in the narrow space behind the counter. To her he said, ‘He killed Sabera and today he's going to kill again and I want to stop him before he does.'

Najma's frightened eyes darted from Henry to Iqbal and back again. Iqbal still had his hand hovering for the follow-up slap.

‘I don't know where he is,' she said simply, totally deflated as tears welled up and cascaded over her face, ‘but I know what he plans to do.'

Henry turned to Bill. ‘Tell them all to clear off' – he gestured with his hand at the confused customers on the forecourt – ‘the garage is closed and they've just had a free fill-up.'

The office behind the counter was tiny, just big enough for a small computer workstation and a couple of chairs. Najma sat at the desk sobbing into a piece of kitchen roll. Iqbal sat on the other chair, staring angrily at her, his arms folded, whilst Henry perched on the corner of the workstation and Bill filled the door with his bulk. The petrol pumps had been turned off from the main switch behind the counter and the shop door had been locked.

Henry was speaking softly. ‘I'm sorry about Sabera. I know you were close.'

‘How could you know?' she demanded through her tears.

‘I'm a detective. It's my job to find out things about people.'

‘He promised he would never hurt her for what she did.'

‘You are a fool, child,' Iqbal sneered, still fighting back the urge to slap her again.

Henry held up a placatory hand. One slap had been quite enough, thank you. Her face was a livid red from the blow, almost glowing.

‘Are you in a relationship with him?' Henry probed.

Najma's head rose, her face distorted cruelly from the anguish. ‘Not one you mean,' she said disgustedly. ‘I am a good Muslim girl. We don't think about sex all the time, like you westerners …'

‘You were bloody well born in this country, you fool!' Iqbal snarled. ‘Your mother was born here, too – and your father. You are a westerner.'