Instinct (3 page)

Henry nodded, his face tightening. Something strange was churning inside him, making everything wrench up. His stomach was getting the cramps, and his chest seemed to be contracting around his heart, squeezing it. His legs felt abruptly weak.

A look must have come across his face.

Rik said, ‘Henry, are you all right?'

The feelings dissipated as he breathed in and out slowly.

‘Yeah, yeah.'

Rik laid a steadying hand on Henry's arm. ‘You sure? You don't look it.'

‘Hundred percent.'

‘I know it's early days  . . .'

‘I said I'm sure,' Henry snapped. Rik, a hurt expression on his face, pulled his hand away. ‘Sorry,' Henry said. ‘Let me look at the body before the circus moves in, please.' He wondered just what the hell he'd felt inside him. Whatever it was, it was extremely unpleasant.

Then, as his torchlight played over the dead body, the sensations started again. His whole torso felt like it was in a vice, legs weak and rubbery; a deep bass pounded in his head as if a hand was inside his skull squeezing and releasing his brain; then dizziness and a roaring sound in his ears, and all he could hear was the rushing of the waves  . . .

He had no recollection whatsoever of how he ended up in Rik Dean's office at Blackpool police station. Just a series of blurred images, a sensation of car travel, lamp posts hurtling by, his head spinning, someone else's hands firmly gripping him, while he tried to breathe normally, regulate his oxygen intake, steady his whole being.

The door opened. Rik Dean entered, holding two mugs of tea, one of which he handed to Henry, who was frowning.

‘I know it sounds a stupid question – but what am I doing here?'

Rik sat down next to him on the small two-seater settee. ‘In my office, you mean?'

‘Uh – yeah.'

‘I think you had a panic attack.'

‘What!' Henry almost spilled his drink, which was halfway to his mouth.

‘I might be wrong, but you sort of froze, then started gulping air and clutching your head, hyperventilating or something.'

‘I what?'

‘It was really weird. Then you said, “I don't know what to do”.'

Henry's frown deepened. He recalled looking at the girl's body – then basically nothing. Other than the unpleasant sensation that felt like he was on a drug-induced trip, not that he'd ever been on one to make such a comparison. He guessed that was what they were like. ‘It all went kinda strange,' he admitted.

‘Panic attack,' Rik confirmed knowledgeably. ‘People under stress, people who've suffered personal loss  . . . it happens.'

‘I don't have panic attacks,' Henry said, affronted.

Rik shrugged. ‘Well, maybe not, but you weren't yourself. Something came over you and affected you, so I made the decision to get you away for your own good.'

‘For my own good?' Henry blasted him. ‘I'm not a child.' He stood up quickly, started pacing around the room. Still not right. As if he wasn't quite there. Rik studied him warily.

‘I suggested taking you home, but you wouldn't have it – nor the hospital.'

Henry stopped abruptly. ‘We had
that
conversation?' Rik nodded. ‘I don't remember that at all.'

‘Henry – it's only been two months.'

He stopped mid-prowl, glared at Rik, daring him to say more, to patronize him, but Henry's expression did not stop Rik from continuing.

‘You've hardly taken time off, have kept going. This is the third murder you've overseen in that time, plus dealing with all the shitty fallout from that nightmare up in Kendleton which still rumbles on. Maybe you need to stop, hop off the world and take a breather. Maybe it's all catching up with you now.' Rik blew out his cheeks. ‘You just keep going  . . . I know what you're doing – compartmentalizing, boxing things off. Perhaps the walls are starting to cave in, Henry.'

‘You a shrink now?' Henry asked harshly.

‘No – a mate,' Rik said gently. ‘With all the things that go with that little word.'

Dawn came. Henry found himself on the promenade, not planning a long walk, just something to clear his head. The air tasted pure, a hint of sea salt in it, and he inhaled deeply, feeling it passing sweetly into his lungs as they expanded.

He had walked from the police station up to North Pier, then started to stroll south towards Central Pier, continually casting his eyes west across the silver shimmer of the Irish Sea, which seemed a mile away, the beach that lay between golden and pristine. No hint of the constant pollution that dogged the sands.

He stopped for a short while at the sea wall, gripping the rail. The sun was rising at his back and he could feel its warmth.

It should be raining, he said to himself. It shouldn't be a beautiful day.

He pushed himself away from the rail and continued his short walk south, able to see the snake-like metallic structure that was the ‘Big One' a mile away on the pleasure beach, one of Europe's most terrifying roller-coaster rides. When he reached Central Pier he crossed over to the twenty-four-hour McDonald's and bought himself a filter coffee, taking it to a window seat in the otherwise empty restaurant, famous for once having been visited by Bill Clinton.

The coffee, he found, was actually excellent. He marvelled at how coffee had sustained him, kept him going, gave him energy over the years. His constant companion. That and Jack Daniel's Tennessee sour mash whiskey.

He was flicking his fingernails together, thinking about how ironic it was that he had ended up on the seafront after all, when he became aware of someone standing by his table. He hadn't seen the approach or noticed anyone come into the restaurant. He looked slowly around, his eyes rising up the torso of a man who was grinning lopsidedly at him. A good-looking guy, very tall, built in proportion, with an all-American chiselled superhero face and a boyish innocent aura that fooled many people, because this man had a very dark side to him.

‘What are you doing here?' Henry asked.

The man's name was Karl Donaldson. He had been Henry's good friend for over a dozen years now. He was an American, formerly an FBI field agent, now comfortably ensconced in the American Embassy in London working as an FBI legal attaché, though he still liked to think of himself as ‘active'. They'd met way back when Donaldson had been investigating American mob activity in the north-west of England. They had subsequently become good friends as their paths continued to pass professionally and personally over the years. Donaldson had even ended up marrying a Lancashire policewoman, and he moved to the job in London, whilst she transferred to the Met.

‘Could ask you the same.'

‘I work and live in this town. You don't even live close.'

Donaldson said, ‘I do now – for today, at least.' He checked his wristwatch, a chunky and horribly expensive Rolex Oyster Perpetual that his wife Karen had treated him to on the recent birth of their daughter, Katie – named after Henry's wife. ‘I've got a half hour, then I need to get into a briefing  . . . I'll explain in a moment. More coffee?'

Henry nodded and watched his friend go to the counter and order two coffees, returning with them and sliding in opposite Henry.

‘Hey, good to see ya, buddy,' Donaldson said.

‘You too.' Henry broke the hinged seal on the lid of his drink and took a sip. ‘You must be here on some sort of hush-hush job?'

‘Terrorism – following up some information with a house raid. Pretty low level stuff.'

Henry pouted. He hadn't heard anything was going on, but that wasn't unusual these days as his head often felt like it was in a bucket.

‘Can't say more than that,' Donaldson added mysteriously.

Henry shrugged acceptance and found himself to be curiously uninterested. He knew Donaldson was deeply involved in the handling, sifting and grading of intelligence in connection with terrorism during the course of his work. From that he often got involved, as an observer, in the knocking down of doors, or surveillance of suspects and then, if arrests followed, the interviews of detainees to gather more intelligence. It was like doing a ten thousand piece jigsaw that was mostly blue sky, no corners and pieces missing. The ultimate aim was to disrupt ‘events', as terrorist incidents were called, and maybe, just maybe, pick up that one vital clue that would lead the Americans to their ultimate goal – one Osama Bin Laden, the leader of al-Qaeda. In respect of today's operation, Henry did not have a clue about it, but assumed that the Intel must be pretty spot on to lure Donaldson out of his plush office.

‘How did you know  . . .?'

‘That you were here? Bumped into Rik Dean  . . . he told me where you'd sneaked off to and I watched you walk in. Last time we were in here was the day I found out Karen was “up the duff”, as you Brits romantically refer to being knocked up.'

‘I remember,' Henry grinned.

‘Rik told me about  . . . er  . . .' Donaldson coughed with embarrassment.

‘That I'd frozen at the scene of a murder?' Henry said sharply. ‘Had a shed collapse?'

‘Another quaint British phrase,' Donaldson said. ‘But, yeah, something like that.'

Henry laughed sourly and shook his head at Donaldson's forthrightness, then looked sideways through the window to hide the bitter kink on his lips. Then he sighed in defeat, peeled the lid completely off his coffee and took a proper mouthful. ‘So what's your advice?'

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.