‘It’s about Natalie.’
‘What about her?’
‘I was going to tell you stuff about her — until that twat annoyed me.’
‘DI Dean?’
‘Yeah, him.’
‘OK — what were you going to say?’
Alison continued to suck and lick his nipple like it was a mini lollipop.
‘Her likes, her preferences.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘She liked Asians, Pakistanis… well, she’d started liking them recently.’
‘And?’
‘I’ve seen the picture of the guy who was shot on the motorway, yeah?’
‘OK.’ Henry sat up. Alison backed off as he held up a hand to keep her at bay.
‘And the picture of the lad locked up in London now, the suicide bomber guy.’
‘Yeah?’
‘They were the ones she liked.’
ELEVEN
After just two hours’ deep sleep, Henry stirred at six o’clock, detached himself from Alison’s grip — she rolled over with a disgusted grunt — and padded into the bathroom, picking up his discarded clothing on the way. He dressed, then left without disturbing her, his mind still zinging with confused thoughts about the relationship.
He needed to get home, shower, shave and change into fresh clothing, then get into the MIR before anyone else landed. This, he thought, as he climbed into the Mercedes, was going to be a long day.
He arrived home less than ten minutes later, the streets of Blackpool virtually traffic-free at that time of day. Karl Donaldson’s huge Jeep was parked on the driveway alongside Leanne’s Fiat 500. This car had belonged to Kate and Leanne had inherited it. Henry swallowed a fresh gulp of guilt at the sight of the Fiat, and just for a moment he wondered how the hell he was going to explain himself to Kate, arriving home at this time of day, bedraggled and with bloodshot eyes. Then he remembered. He shook his head, but the gulp stuck in his throat as he let himself quietly into the house.
He heard the running of a shower from the main bathroom. It was unlikely to be Leanne, so Henry knew it would be Donaldson up and ready to face the world again. The guy had boundless energy and no doubt had already been for a three mile run. Fit, good-looking bastard, Henry thought.
Lifting one heavy leg after the other up the stairs, Henry sidled into his bedroom like a naughty teenager sneaking home. Still feeling the guilt. He undressed, and when he heard the other shower stop, he got into the en suite shower, turned it on hot and stood for a very long time under the driving jets.
Twenty minutes later, fresh as a daisy, newly clothed and with everything trimmed, including nose and ear hair, Henry walked into the kitchen where Donaldson was pouring a mug of freshly filtered coffee. The toaster popped up as Henry entered. His friend gave him one of those knowing looks.
‘Say nothing,’ Henry warned him.
Donaldson’s eyebrows arched as he considered this, then he said, ‘You know I can’t do that, don’t you?’
Henry poured himself a coffee whilst Donaldson buttered the toast and dropped two more slices into the toaster. He hummed irritatingly, a cheeky grin on his face, then armed with food and drink made his way to the conservatory to eat.
Henry joined him a few minutes later, similarly equipped.
‘Work colleague?’ Donaldson probed. Henry remained mys-teriously silent. ‘Hooker?’ Still nothing. ‘Second cousin twice removed? We are, after all, in the backwoods here?’ Nothing. He squinted at Henry. ‘Can’t be a cougar — you’re the one who’s too old.’
Henry bristled, but oddly enjoyed the tease.
‘Supermodel?’ No response. ‘You know I’ll find out, I’m a superb FBI agent for God’s sake.’
‘Stop.’ Henry raised a piece of toast threateningly. ‘Stop right there. I’m pretty screwed up about it as it stands.’ This was an ironic thing for Henry to say. His history of extramarital relationships would have made most observers draw the conclusion that Henry hadn’t cared very much about Kate’s feelings when she had been alive, so now that she was gone, what did it matter? He just knew it did.
‘Who is she?’ This time Donaldson’s probe was gentle.
‘Alison Marsh.’
‘The barmaid?’ Donaldson said. He had met her at the same time as Henry in the blood-soaked village of Kendleton.
‘The landlady, to be more precise. The owner of a very nice country pub stroke hotel.’
‘And a woman with a dark secret.’ Donaldson made a pistol shape with his fingers.
‘Aye, maybe… whatever.’
‘But she is very nice. How… er?’
‘Call out of the blue.’
‘Could it be serious?’
‘Who the heck knows? I don’t think I’m handling it very well.’
‘It’s early days.’
‘That’s part of the problem, I reckon.’
‘What? Social niceties? Henry, this is me, your biggest pal.’ He leaned forwards with his toast. ‘Screw social niceties and let whatever is going to happen, happen. If it’s a fling, then so be it. Screw each other senseless. If it’s serious, well good for both of you. She deserves happiness and, what’s more important to me, so do you.’
Henry regarded him open-mouthed. ‘I thought you were an FBI agent, not a relationship counsellor.’
‘I can turn my hand to most things… except DIY, much to Karen’s annoyance.’
‘OK, bud, thanks for the ass-kicking.’ Henry bit into his toast, then with his mouth full said, ‘I’ve something that might interest you.’
‘This is a legitimate question,’ Henry said to Mark Carter. ‘Are you just pissing us about, or what?’
Mark looked affronted — and angry. ‘I’m telling you the truth, man.’
‘Start talking, then.’
The interview was monitored by Rik and Donaldson via an audio/video feed into the DI’s office. The picture on the monitor wasn’t brilliant but the speech was clear enough, and when Henry drew the interview to a close, the two men leaned back, looked at each other, but said nothing as they watched Henry and Mark vacate the interview room down in the custody office.
Rik poured Donaldson a coffee, one for himself and one for Henry, who was expected a few minutes later when he’d re-bailed Mark.
Although Henry hadn’t arrested Mark this time, he wanted to re-bail him, so he led the lad back to the custody office, only to find a man arrested on a warrant was being booked in, so they had to wait.
He and Mark stood patiently at the back of the room, waiting for the custody desk to clear. Henry had a few papers rolled up in his hand, and was tapping his chin thoughtfully when Mark said, ‘Are those the photos of the guys?’ Henry nodded. ‘Can I have a look again?’
Mark had already seen the photographs of Sadiq and Rahman and confirmed they were students attending the same college that he did and that he’d seen them talking to Natalie in a more than friendly way. That was the basis of what he’d told Henry — that he knew the two Asian lads by sight, not personally, and that Natalie knocked around with them in the dining rooms and common room. And that it had got him mad.
Henry handed the photos over absent-mindedly. He was busy rolling this new information through his mind, wondering if it was important or just juvenile tittle-tattle. Mark opened the sheets and looked at them and said, ‘Yeah, these are the guys. Geeks, I’d’ve said.’ Then he said, ‘Who’s this guy?’
‘Who?’ Henry looked and realized he had inadvertently handed Mark a photograph of Jamil Akram which was also in his file. Mark was studying the photograph intently. It wasn’t a good one, a bit grainy and blurred, a surveillance photograph that could have been taken on the other side of the world.
‘This one.’
‘Why?’ When Mark hesitated, Henry sensed he was backtracking then. ‘Why?’ Henry said forcefully.
‘I… er… saw Sadiq and Rahman and Natalie with this guy.’
Henry dragged him by the collar straight back into the interview room they’d just vacated.
‘Speak.’
‘Uh, remember I said me and Natalie did it on her mum’s rug?’