Hidden Witness (11 page)

Good enough reason to do a runner, Mark thought. He spun away, almost stepping into the path of a car pulling up at the front of the shops.

‘Stupid kid,' Alex Bent said, slamming on the brakes.

‘Eh – what?' Henry glanced up from the paperwork he had been studying, only catching a fleeting glimpse of the back of the youth who'd nearly been flattened by Bent.

The moment was gone and forgotten as the two detectives got out of the battered ‘Danny', the old slang term for a plain car used by detectives – in this case an ageing Ford Focus that looked as if it had never seen better days.

They walked to the front door of the chip shop and rattled the handle.

‘Need to find the owners,' Henry said unnecessarily.

Next-but-one along was a newsagent owned by an Asian, Mr Aziz. He was lounging at the door of his shop. Henry and Bent asked him a few pertinent questions but he didn't know anything about the incident or the chip shop owner, who was new. Aziz thought he lived somewhere in Preston.

Henry thanked him and went to the scene out back.

He intended to have half an hour here, then head across to the other murder scene in town and start to build up any connections between the two.

Suddenly, Mark was no longer hungry. Suddenly, he was as paranoid as hell as the thought hit him, the same one he'd had last night, that murderers always go back to the scenes of their wrongdoing. At least that's what they said in TV cop dramas. They liked to gloat, enjoyed the power and Mark realized he was stupid to go anywhere near the scene again. If the murderer was there, milling about with the onlookers, keeping his head down, Mark was a sitting duck.

Hence his thoughtless step in front of a car, almost resulting in him getting flattened.

And then the glimpse of the driver, who he did not recognize, and the even quicker look at the passenger who he did recognize and never wanted to see again.

The horrible feeling was that if Henry Christie was running this case, then it would only be a matter of time before he and Mark came face to face.

SIX

‘
Y
ou don't understand,' the man pleaded desperately. ‘Firstly I cannot tell you anything because I know nothing.' He was using expressive hand gestures as he spoke. ‘And even if I did, I could still say nothing because I would be dead within days, possibly hours, of speaking to you.' He snorted derisively. ‘Don't think that because I will be held inside a Maltese prison that I am unreachable. They can get to me anywhere, so I say nothing, keep myself alive.'

Karl Donaldson tried to look sympathetically across the interview room table, but cared little for the man's predicament. He was on the trail of a killer and this individual was the best lead he'd had in three years of chasing shadows.

Donaldson shifted uncomfortably in the plastic chair, sweat dripping from his scalp, down his neck and all the way to his backside. The heat was oppressive, even here in what were literally dungeons below the streets of Valletta on the island of Malta. He glanced at the stern-looking Maltese cop standing rigidly by the heavy steel door, arms folded, face grim.

‘Any air-con in here?' Donaldson asked.

The cop shook his head and allowed himself a wry smile. As if. Much of the police station above ground level had been modernized, but the money had not stretched as far as the underground cell complex. There was still a medieval feel to them, as though it was only days since the Knights of Malta might have incarcerated their Turkish prisoners before beheading them with their scimitars.

Which was an irony, albeit a small one, as the man sitting opposite Donaldson was a Turk, though he had left his homeland many years before and ditched Islam along the way. His name was Mustapha Fazil.

‘I need a cigarette,' Fazil demanded.

Donaldson checked with the guard, who nodded, and Donaldson handed Fazil a pack of Camels and a lighter. Apparently, no smoking policies hadn't reached Malta just yet, which was good, Donaldson thought. Tobacco was always a useful interview tool.

Fazil lit up, inhaled deeply, then exhaled the acrid smoke with a shudder of pleasure. Donaldson tried not to cough. He was anti-smoking but did see its uses as Fazil visibly relaxed in front of him.

‘In other words,' Fazil said, picking something from his tongue, ‘I'm a dead man if I talk, so don't expect me to say anything.'

After a beat of silence, Donaldson leaned on to the table, his eyes searching the young man's face – the deep-set eyes, the hooked nose, the thick black moustache, the swarthy suntanned features – all mixed together to make up the stereotypical Turk. And also the face of a young man deeply embroiled in a life of organized crime that spanned international boundaries.

Donaldson vividly remembered the call-out three years earlier, the reason for him being here now, sweating in an ancient cell, desperately trying to extract information from a very unwilling source . . .

Midnight. Donaldson had been at work since seven a.m. that day, at the beginning of a manhunt to track down one of the world's most wanted terrorists, Mohammed Ibrahim Akbar, a man who had almost managed to assassinate the American State Secretary who had been on a visit to the north of England at the invitation of the British Foreign Secretary. The attempt had failed – just – but the
terrorist had escaped. Donaldson had then been asked to become part of a multi-agency team dedicated to hunting down and apprehending, or neutralizing if necessary, the wanted man.

In the very early days of this manhunt, much of Donaldson's time had been spent with the other team members collecting, collating and sifting intelligence and information just to get a sniff of the whereabouts of their prey. Long days at the computer, on the telephone, and reading reports from agents across the globe, trying to pinpoint their guy and work out his next move. So they could be there, waiting for him.

On the day he got the call-out he'd been in his office for almost seventeen hours. His eyes were grit-tired and he knew he needed a shower, shave and about twelve hours sleep, the latter option being the most unlikely to happen.

He was in his cubbyhole of an office in the American embassy in Grosvenor Square, London, where he had worked for over ten years as a legal attaché for the FBI. It was one of the most prestigious jobs in that organization and something he did well.

Just before the witching hour, he closed his computer down, stretched, yawned and rubbed his eyes, when one of the other team members appeared by the door, leaning on the jamb. This was Jo Kerrigan, a CIA operative who was the only female to be drafted on to the team. Donaldson had struck up a good rapport with her. She was a six-foot blonde, a fantastic athlete who had once made the US cross country skiing team in the winter Olympics. In physical terms she was more than a match of Donaldson, who himself touched six-four, was broad-shouldered, fit and all-American handsome.

He knew that the relationship between him and Kerrigan could easily become intimate. But – and it was a very big ‘but' for Donaldson – even though his marriage was going through a rocky phase, he would never allow himself to be unfaithful to his wife Karen, tempting though the prospect was.

‘Long day,' she said.

‘Yup – and getting nowhere fast.' He clicked shut the lid of his laptop.

‘Going home?'

‘Uh – naw – using one of the service apartments tonight. Need an early start.' This meant he would be staying within the confines of the embassy in one of the tiny en-suite rooms at the rear of the building. They were known colloquially as ‘hell holes' and the team had been granted special permission to use them whenever necessary.

‘Yeah, me too,' she said, smiling. ‘How about a drink first? The night is young.'

Donaldson eyed her. ‘Yeah, maybe,' he drawled.

‘How about food? I bet you haven't eaten since that croissant this morning, have ya?'

In a reply that said it all, Donaldson's stomach growled loudly and they both chuckled.

‘You're right,' he said patting his tummy. He was suddenly famished. He guessed it wouldn't do any harm to go get a bite to eat with Jo because he didn't intend it to go any further than food. Even though he'd had a very terse conversation with his wife earlier that evening when she'd castigated him for never coming home and being obsessed with work. The conversation had frozen after he'd announced his intention to bed down overnight at the embassy.

‘There's a new Chinese on Curzon Street – opens late,' Jo suggested.

‘Chinese sounds good,' he said but there was a touch of hesitation in his voice. ‘Er . . . just need to make a couple of quick calls, actually,' he fibbed. ‘Time zones, etcetera,' he explained. ‘Won't take long . . . see you at the staff exit in five?'

‘Yeah, no probs.' Her eyes shone brightly at him.

Donaldson waited for her to go before using his mobile phone to call Karen. He didn't call the home number, but her mobile instead (even though he still insisted on calling them cellphones). She did not answer. He left a faltering, apologetic message on the answering service and felt utterly guilty about going out for some late night nosh with the stunning Jo.

He rose reluctantly, resolving to enjoy the food and the company, and nothing else. He was, after all, starving. He jerked his jacket off the back of his chair and shrugged himself into it, checked the desk – computer closed down properly, drawers locked – and was about to head for the door when the desk phone
rang shrilly.

Had he been less conscientious he would have ignored it.

He scooped it up. ‘Karl Donaldson, Homeland Security.' He squinted at the display but did not recognize the caller number.

Nor did he get to bed that night.

‘Karl, this is Don Barber from the Madrid office.' From the tone of those few words he knew the news was bad, but he didn't have any idea what it would be. He knew Barber well. He was ex-special forces who had left the army after distinguished service in the Kuwait theatre, got himself a law degree and joined the FBI. They'd actually worked together for a short spell in the mid-nineties
before their paths diverged. Barber had made a good career for himself and at that time headed up the FBI Madrid office. Instinctively, Donaldson checked the wall clock – midnight plus ten – one ten Spanish time.

‘Don – wassup?'

‘It's Shark,' he said, his voice jittering, spreading a horrible feeling of iciness through Donaldson.

‘What about him?'

‘I'm really sorry to have to tell you this, but he was shot to death a little earlier this evening in a place just outside Palma, Majorca.'

Donaldson sat down numbly. ‘Tell me everything,' he said . . .

‘Anyway, FBI man, why you so interested in three dead Italians?' Fazil wanted to know.

‘I'm a law enforcement officer, that's all you need to know. This is simply an information-gathering interview.'

‘I don't have to speak to you, then.' Fazil blew out several lazy rings of smoke, now completely relaxed since being allowed the cigarettes.

‘That depends, my friend . . .'

‘On what?'

Donaldson wiped a hand across his brow. It came away damp with sweat. ‘The days of rules are well past. On the face of it I will obey the rules – of interview, of Human Rights, of fairness – but underneath I will be operating on a different level, like the feet of a duck.' Donaldson wiggled the first two fingers on his right hand to imitate a duck's feet. ‘I will throw you to the wolves if you don't cooperate with me.'

Fazil eyed him cynically.

‘I can be your friend or your enemy. Your choice.'

‘Mr Donaldson.' Fazil smashed out the stub of his cigarette in the ashtray. ‘I have killed a Maltese police officer in a firefight. I will be found guilty of that and I will be incarcerated on this stinking island for many, many years. Even that thought will not make me talk to you.' His dark eyes looked down and his wide nostrils flared.

Donaldson caught the first BA flight from London Gatwick to Palma later that morning, three years before. Don Barber met him at the airport, hustled him through customs into a waiting car, which was driven for
less than ten minutes to the beach front restaurant in Can Pastilla where the shooting had taken place the evening before.

The bodies had all been removed but otherwise the scene was as it had been, and the road in front of the hotel was cordoned off to through traffic. The local police scientific team was working the scene as professionally as anything Donaldson had ever witnessed.

He and Don Barber were allowed under the tape and Barber walked him through what had happened with the permission of the senior police officer present, who could only speculate as to why two FBI agents were here.

‘Hell,' Donaldson said afterwards. ‘Where are the bodies now?'

‘Palma mortuary.'

‘And do we have anything?'

‘Only the names of all three victims.'

‘What about evidence from the scene itself?'

‘We could have something,' Barber said, consulting a flip over notepad he had with him. ‘From the waiter, who despite being in shock, has given us a pretty good description of the shooter – which I'll come to later – it seems that another customer went to the restroom, which was then visited by the shooter. He
then returned to the table, then opened fire. Bam!' Barber said bitterly. ‘Paella everywhere. But don't get excited, we don't know if the shooter left any traces in the john or at the table. I reckon it's doubtful, but I've got our own crime scene guys on the way from Madrid and I've asked the locals to hold back a bit – not that I'm saying they aren't doing a good job. But obviously they are very interested as to why the FBI is sniffin' around, though.'