Читать книгу Kashmir Rescue - Doug Armstrong, Doug Armstrong P. - Страница 6

By the time Don Headley received the news the phones in the ops room were already buzzing with enquiries from the press. At first he couldn’t believe what had happened. Reality had broken into the middle of his exercise and two men were dead.

As soon as he could he got away from his desk and drove to Bramley Road. It was mid-morning and the traffic was heavy. On all sides drivers drummed their steering wheels in frustration as the long queues edged slowly forwards. The rain had stopped and a harsh winter light percolated through the thick layers of cloud, muting the colours into one continuous semblance of grey. It was a part of the country Don particularly hated, the dense belt of urban wasteland spread thickly around central London. Successive decades had added to it, pushing it out ever further until towns that had once counted themselves lucky to be outside the city now found themselves being sucked in, not enjoying full membership but rather taken on board as second-class citizens in a dubious club.

Hounslow, Isleworth, Sunbury, Feltham – the names rolled past, each representing an identical sprawl of little red houses and car-packed residential streets. It wasn’t so long ago that such roads would have boasted hardly a single vehicle parked at the kerbside, but increasing prosperity had combined with thoughtless marketing by the car manufacturers, whose eyes were solely on profit, and it had resulted in nearly every household owning at least one vehicle. Along either side of every road parked cars were jammed in nose to tail. It struck Don as a case of suicide by self-strangulation on a national scale. No one individual was prepared to sacrifice his car, not even with the prospect looming of the next generation gassing itself. Public transport was overcrowded and stank, so what was the incentive?

For an incentive to work and change a lifestyle it had to produce a more immediate threat. But then with smoking even that hadn’t worked, Don reflected as he waited impatiently behind a lorry that was belching obnoxious blue fumes. It was almost possible to predict to a smoker the year in which his habit would bring about his agonizing death, and yet nine times out of ten he would continue. What was the answer? Don was buggered if he knew. Perhaps the species was on track for extinction and it was as simple as that. Self-destruction had replaced self-preservation as the prime motivation in the human psyche, and no one had even noticed. He grinned sardonically. They had probably been too busy watching Gladiators.

It was another half hour before he drew up outside the house. A policeman came to his window to wave him on but he produced a pass and was allowed to go in search of a parking space. The curtains in the neighbouring houses twitched as inquisitive eyes followed him out of the car and down the driveway. The couple in the house on the opposite side of the road were less circumspect and stood at their open doorway, mugs of tea in their hands, interested to find their mundane existence disrupted by something as exciting as a murder.

Chief Inspector Rod Chiltern met Don at the front of the house.

‘The SOCO’s round the back with his lads. Be careful not to touch anything.’

Don scowled at him, resenting the caution. Nevertheless, he was only there as an observer. It was police business and had nothing to do with the SAS. So far.

He followed Chiltern down the narrow path. The first thing he saw when he emerged at the back outside the kitchen door was the body of Colin Field. It was propped up against the wall as if he had just sat down for a rest. His legs were splayed, the scuffed trainers out of sync with the portly figure of their owner. His head was cocked heavily to one side, the eyes open a slit, lips pursed. A trickle of blood had dried to a crack of dark purple running from the corner of his mouth to his chin, but the real sign of damage was the blood on the red brick of the wall, splashed liberally as if a child had flung a can of paint at it.

A couple of yards from him, Paul Robins lay on the crazy-paving terrace. Don noticed the shattered hand and could imagine how Paul had received the wound. The wound in his chest was bad but he judged it had probably not been fatal. That had been reserved for the head shot.

He moved carefully round to the far side.

‘Jesus,’ he whistled.

Chiltern nodded. ‘Not much chance of giving him the kiss of life, is there?’ he said.

The explosion of the gun in the confined space of the mouth had blown out most of the teeth, propelling them through the thin wall of the cheeks. But where the bullet had exited through the top and back of the skull there was a gaping hole. It had taken the larger portion of the brain with it and slammed it in a rough fan shape on the paving stones.

‘How well did you know them?’ Chiltern asked.

Don shrugged. ‘Reasonably. They’d been on my course for a while and you get to know the guys quickly that way.’

He was being polite, tempering his opinion because he knew that Chiltern had worked with both the dead men for several years. In truth Don had found them to be a couple of no-hopers, overweight, inefficient, dim-witted and bungling. Just the stupid sods, in fact, to walk straight into the middle of an armed gang without so much as a catapult. But no one deserved to die like this, he thought. Not even these two.

He crouched down beside them and looked around. The scene-of-crime officer had done a thorough sweep and everything that might be needed as evidence was circled with a thin chalk line. Principal among these items were several cartridge cases. Don asked if he might have a closer look at one of them and the SOCO nodded.

‘Don’t bugger up the prints, and put it back where you found it,’ he snapped, busy with a measuring tape, marking the distance from Colin’s body to the point where he estimated the firer must have been standing.

Don took a pair of gloves from his pocket and slipped one of them on. Carefully, he picked up the nearest of the cases and examined it. It was 9mm calibre. Powerful enough to silence a full-grown man, especially at almost point-blank range. No wonder Colin had been flung against the wall with such force, he thought.

But there was something unusual about it and a moment later Don realized what it was. He had come across its kind only once before. Several years ago he had been on secondment to the Sultan of Oman’s army. The Sultan’s quartermaster had done some shopping around on the open market for ammunition in an effort to cut costs. British ammunition had proved the most expensive, and he had finally opted for a batch of Pakistani-made rounds, both 7.62mm and 9mm. They hadn’t performed as effectively or as consistently as the British-made ammunition, several of the rounds misfiring and causing stoppages owing to an insufficient charge of powder in the brass case. But they had done the job and Pakistani ammunition had been used a great deal thereafter.

Turning the cartridge case in his fingers, Don was convinced that this was from the same source. He replaced it in its white chalk circle, where it looked as if it was about to be part of some Satanic ceremony.

He voiced his opinion to the SOCO, who grunted and said, ‘Right now I couldn’t give a stuff. But thanks all the same. I’ll get the lads on to it back at the lab. If you’re right they’ll be able to tell you the exact factory it came from, right down to the postcode.’

Don went into the kitchen, where Chiltern was receiving a report from one of his men. He looked up as Don came in. ‘Nice mess, isn’t it?’

‘That’s what happens when you get in the way of a 9mm bullet or two.’

‘Well, there’s another two dead upstairs,’ Chiltern added, shaking his head. ‘Right sodding blood-bath this is turning into.’

He led the way into the hall and up the stairs. Everywhere were signs of the intruders’ recent presence. Furniture had been overturned, pictures ripped from the walls and ornaments smashed.

‘It looks like my own place after the kids have had a party,’ Chiltern said, grinning.

They found the next body sprawled on the landing. It was the body of a middle-aged man of Indian appearance. A bullet wound in the back of the left leg indicated that he had been brought down trying to run away from his attackers. Thereafter someone had made a crude attempt at interrogating him. A heavy metal file had been applied to the surfaces of his teeth until they were almost completely rubbed level with the blood-soaked gums.

‘That’s an old Spetsnaz trick,’ Don said in amazement.

‘Who?’

‘Spetsnaz. Soviet special forces.’

Chiltern winced at the gruesome spectacle. ‘What the fuck would they be doing in Southall?’

Don shrugged. ‘I don’t know, but during the Cold War they sent training teams abroad, just like we did.’

‘Passing on their techniques, you mean?’

‘Exactly.’

The man’s eyes were wide open and staring, bulging out of their sockets with the agony. A cloth had been stuffed at the back of his mouth to prevent him screaming and he had been finished off with a bullet to the back of the head.

‘Who was he?’ Don asked.

‘Just a guy who ran a chain of curry restaurants in the area,’ Chiltern replied. ‘I’ve ordered takeaways from them myself. Bloody good they were too.’

‘Any idea why anyone would want to do this to him?’

Chiltern shrugged. ‘Not a clue.’ He smirked. ‘Perhaps someone got Delhi belly after his vindaloo.’

Don ignored the wisecrack. ‘You said there were a couple of bodies?’

The policeman pointed to an open door. From inside Don could hear the click and whirr of an automatic camera. He stepped over the dead man and went on down the corridor. The bare legs were the first thing he saw, protruding from behind the bed. The police photographer looked up.

‘Nasty. Very nasty. It’s as clinical as an execution.’

He moved aside to allow Don a clear line of sight to the body. It was a woman. Presumably the man’s wife. They seemed to Don to be of a similar age. She was dressed in a bright-blue sari trimmed in gold. Expensive. He studied the room. It was obviously the home of a well-to-do family.

Unlike her husband’s, the woman’s eyes were tightly shut; clenched, as if trying to shut out some unpleasantness. One hand was clasped to her throat in shock and the other held a candlestick.

‘Looks like she tried to defend herself,’ Chiltern said.

A single bullet between the shoulder-blades had thwarted any such attempt, ending her life immediately.

While Chiltern spoke to the SOCO, who had now finished in the garden and climbed up the stairs to start work in the house, Don wandered out on to the landing again and explored the other rooms. There were two bathrooms, a guest bedroom, tastefully decorated but unlived in, and a large room clearly belonging to an older man. There were smashed photograph frames on the floor, and a walking stick snapped in two.

But it was the last room that caught his attention most. Posters hung off the walls, pictures of pop stars and horses. The furnishings were in pinks and pale, gentle shades, and the clothes torn from the ransacked drawers were those of a young woman. More interestingly, there was a single small stain on the carpet close by the door. Don stooped and examined it. The next moment he shouted down the landing to the SOCO.

‘I think you’d better take a look at this.’

The SOCO and Chiltern padded down the corridor towards him.

‘What is it?’

Don pointed at the stain. ‘Looks like blood, if you ask me.’

The SOCO sighed in exasperation. ‘Is that all? The whole sodding house is awash with blood, and you raise the alarm over one tiny stain.’

‘Yes, but look at the room. Someone’s been in here recently.’

‘Brilliant! I can tell you’re army.’ The SOCO shook his head.

But Chiltern saw what Don was getting at. ‘Don’s right.’

‘Thank you,’ Don said. ‘Have you found the body of a girl yet?’

The SOCO blanched. ‘No.’

‘Then I suggest you start looking for her because there was a girl in this room less than an hour ago. Look.’ He pointed at the dressing table. ‘The make-up’s open. Don’t tell me the intruders wanted to touch up their lipstick.’

‘Shit,’ Chiltern hissed. ‘If they’ve taken her we could have a hostage crisis on our hands as well as a quadruple murder. What the hell’s going on here?’ He turned on his heel and marched back to the stairs. ‘Don, you come with me. This is police business now. I shouldn’t have allowed you in here in the first place. Your assistance and interest are much appreciated, but I’ll handle things from now on. Oh, and by the way, I suggest you end that exercise of yours. Reality’s got in the way. Thanks for everything, but you can return to Hereford. Send me a report on the guys you think might have passed when you’ve got a moment to write them up.’

He led Don to the front door and ushered him out into the front garden. It had started to rain again and as he sauntered back to his car Don turned up the collar of his jacket and hunched his shoulders against the sharp cold. He had seen more than his fair share of action, but the sight of the murders had shocked him. There was something particularly repulsive about the sight of a dead body in an otherwise normal setting. It was bad enough on the battlefield, but in a comfortable house in the middle of suburbia it smacked of the most appalling decay. Two of the men on his course had been butchered in cold blood and in a way he felt responsible for it. They had radioed in to report their sighting of a van and although it had been a police responsibility to dispatch assistance, Don had noticed that there had been little sense of urgency. No one had really believed Paul’s message, assuming it to be just another part of the exercise programme. Because of the delay they were dead.

He unlocked the door of his car and got in, turning the key and gunning the accelerator as the engine fired. He glanced at the clock on the dashboard. He could be home in Hereford by teatime. All of a sudden he wanted nothing more than to be out on the motorway and burning up the miles of tarmac between London’s dismal outskirts and the fresh air of the Severn estuary, the green hills of Wales beckoning from beyond.

Chiltern had been right. It was a police matter and nothing to do with a soldier. Don’s job had simply been to run the exercise and help the police with their anti-terrorist training. What could such an occurrence possibly have to do with him? It was just bad luck that Colin and Paul had got caught up in the middle of something that was too big for them. They were dumb for getting involved.

Blanking it out of his mind, he headed for the nearest junction of the M4, just east of Heathrow, and threaded his way out into the traffic. The rush hour was tailing to a close but it was always busy on this stretch. Within half an hour, however, the spaces between the cars expanded and soon he had his foot flat on the floor, feeling the miles being eaten up beneath his wheels.

No doubt there would be the usual hearty jokes in the mess when he got back to the barracks. The older he got the more the humour grated. It was all very well when you were young but after a while you started to see that there wasn’t much to laugh about in death. Perhaps that was the time to quit.

But as he drove he found his mind flicking back always to the same thing. Not to the bodies of Colin or Paul, the exploded brains on the paving stones and the blood on the wall, nor the body on the landing or in the bedroom, the candlestick clasped pathetically in its small, tight fist. But rather to the empty bedroom with the posters and the untouched make-up jars. Somewhere, if he was right, a young woman had been taken hostage. And although the matter was out of his hands he couldn’t shake off the feeling that somehow he hadn’t heard the last of it. Somehow he knew that he would be involved with it again.

‘Are you sure she can breathe?’

‘Don’t worry.’

‘I’m not worrying,’ Ceda Bandram said slowly, glowering over his shoulder at Ali Shaffer, who sat sprawled across the back seat. ‘I don’t want to arrive only to find that she’s suffocated.’ He stabbed a finger at Ali. ‘You would be held personally responsible. Remember that.’

Ali sniggered and waved a large, nonchalant paw. ‘I drilled holes in the underside of the boot. A shame considering the newness of the car, but it couldn’t be helped, I suppose. It’ll all be charged to the expense account.’

Bandram stared ahead at the slow-moving traffic. Since the events at the house he had changed into a sweatshirt, slacks and moccasins. The van had been dumped in a lock-up garage that had been hired for the purpose and he estimated it would be a good many weeks before it was discovered. By then they would be several thousand miles away.

The team had split up and were now travelling by separate routes and methods of transport to the next rendezvous and the next leg of their onward journey. For himself, Ali and the driver, there had been a waiting BMW and of course he had ensured that the hostage had been brought with him. Every man in the team had been hand-picked but even so he made a habit of never trusting anyone but himself with the most delicate part of any mission.

The only man whom he had not selected was Ali. There was nothing he could do about it, however. Ali had been forced upon him by the boss. He was another relation, although Ceda had never known much about him. But that was the way with families in Pakistan, complex networks of relatives with every so often the discovery of some hidden black sheep. And Ali was such a cupboard skeleton if ever there was one. Ceda had been disgusted with the evident glee with which Ali had conducted the interrogation at the house. It was not that he was squeamish, but there were ways of doing things. One didn’t have to enjoy the more unpleasant tasks of the business. Some unfortunate things might always be necessary, but maintaining a sense of propriety kept one separated from the beast. In Ceda’s view Ali had crossed that threshold. He glanced back at him again, but Ali was staring happily out of the window humming to himself. His torture of the poor individual at the house seemed to be completely forgotten.

Ceda consoled himself with the thought that there were a great many pitfalls before the team finally reached safety. There would be plenty of opportunities for a fatal accident to befall Ali. Ceda for one would not mourn his loss.

The driver coughed and nodded towards a lay-by. A police car and motorcycle were parked at the roadside, the men scanning the traffic. They had already flagged down two white vans and were attempting to attract the attention of a third. Ceda smiled to himself. He was due to switch vehicles at least once more before the final RV and was confident that even if the police discovered the original van they would be unable to track him in time.

He reached down the side of the seat and pulled out a road map, unfolded it on his lap and began studying the markings he had made earlier. Bored with his humming, Ali leaned forward, crossing his arms on the back of Ceda’s seat and peering over his shoulder to get a look at the map.

‘Where to now, cousin?’ he asked sarcastically.

‘Don’t call me that,’ Ceda said coolly.

Ali shrugged. ‘I thought blood was supposed to be thicker than water?’

‘You ought to know. You’ve seen enough of it.’

‘You didn’t do so bad yourself, you hypocrite. Dropping those two cops like that.’ He shaped his hand like a gun and put it to Ceda’s head, mimicking the shooting. ‘Bang, bang. You’re dead. Nice work. A bit cold and clinical for my liking, but professional. Uncle would approve.’

‘I didn’t do it for Uncle’s approval. In fact I didn’t want to do it at all.’

‘Oh no, of course not. I forgot. You’re the ex-army officer. Death before dishonour, and all that. I’m sorry.’ He sat back with a derisory laugh. ‘You’re full of shit.’

Ceda gritted his teeth, resisting the urge to go for the gun in his belt. The driver glanced nervously across at him and he relaxed. He was responsible for the whole team, not just for himself. He couldn’t afford to lose his temper, and certainly not over a dick-head like Ali.

‘Where’s the next switch?’ the driver asked, keen to divert the conversation away from the rivalry between the two men. It had been evident to most of the team members from the outset but they all knew and trusted Ceda, and were confident that he would see them safely through.

‘Not the next service station but the one after that. The cars have been left in the car park. I’ve got the registration numbers here.’ He patted his breast pocket.

‘It seems such a waste just to ditch the car,’ the driver added, stroking the dashboard lovingly. ‘She’s a beauty.’

Ceda smiled. ‘That’s business. Just be thankful you’re not footing the bill.’

Ali perked up from the rear. ‘Talking of beauties, how do you intend to transfer the cargo?’ He jabbed a thumb at the boot. ‘You can’t just lift her out in full view of everyone.’

‘Don’t worry. That’s been seen to. The car’ll be parked in a nice private spot. No one will see.’

He turned on the radio to cut short any further talk with Ali, pressing the automatic tuning button and watching the digital display purr rapidly through the frequencies. There was some traffic news warning of jams on the M4, and he checked the map to see if it would interfere with their escape.

‘Problem?’ the driver asked.

‘Could be. It’s after the next switch. It could have cleared by the time we get there, but it might be wise to make a detour.’

‘Won’t that confuse the others?’

‘It might, but it’ll be better than getting stuck in a tailback and waiting for the police to catch up with us. Every extra hour we spend in this miserable country increases the chance that they’ll be on to us.’

There was a metallic click from the back of the car and Ceda glanced around to see Ali playing with his pistol.

‘Personally I don’t care if they do catch up with us,’ Ali said. He aimed down the barrel of his gun. ‘Just let them try and take me.’ He squeezed the trigger and the hammer clicked shut on an empty chamber.

‘Keep that bloody thing out of sight,’ Ceda snapped. The traffic was light on the present stretch of road but there was always the chance of another motorist seeing the gun and reporting it to the police.

It was another half an hour before they saw the sign advertising the service station. The driver waited for Ceda’s confirmatory signal before indicating and pulling over into the slow lane. Ceda adjusted the wing mirror beside him and checked that they were not being followed. The lane behind was clear. No other car appeared to be coming after them.

The car slowed as the driver worked down through the gears, tracing the white arrows marking the route for cars wanting the main car park. It was moderately busy. Rows of large lorries were drawn up in line and in the other section the only available spaces were the ones farthest from the restaurant and shops. They cruised up and down until Ceda said, ‘There it is. The grey Ford.’

‘That’s a bit of a come-down,’ Ali drawled from the back.

Ceda ignored him. ‘Park next to it.’

Two orange plastic cones had kept the adjacent space free of cars and as the car slowed, Ceda darted out and moved them, waving the BMW forward until it was close alongside and the driver cut the engine. The boots of the two cars were angled away from the main public areas and were shielded from view by a screen of trees.

Ceda cursed.

‘What’s the matter?’ the driver asked as he got out and stretched, his muscles cramped after the long drive.

‘Those idiots who did the recce. They must have come here in the summer. The trees would have been covered in leaves then. Now look at them.’

He was right. The leaves had long since fallen, washed into a brown pulp by prolonged heavy rain, and it was possible to see the shopping area through the bare branches.

‘Well, it can’t be helped.’

‘Do you want us to transfer the girl now?’ the driver asked nervously.

‘No. We’ll wait until the others get here and then do it. I want to have a look around in any case.’

‘Good, I’ll come with you,’ Ali said brightly.

Ceda considered telling him to forget it, but decided not to.

‘You stay here,’ he ordered the driver. ‘If you see any of the others don’t make it obvious that we’re together.’

‘Got it.’

Trying to forget that Ali was beside him, Ceda walked briskly towards the main building. His familiarity with Britain was one of the reasons he had been selected for the mission. In his army days he had been sent for training to Sandhurst and since then he had been back to attend further courses in the country. During those times he had used the opportunity to travel widely. Later, after his resignation, he had worked briefly in Britain, staying with relatives in London and Birmingham. He felt comfortable moving through the rail and road networks, while still maintaining the psychological distance of the visitor. On the present mission that distance was a vital safeguard against carelessness. Familiarity might well breed contempt, but complacency was a far more dangerous by-product.

After a trip to the toilets they went into the concourse and stood for a moment surveying the array of shops and eating places. There was the choice between a sit-down restaurant, a hamburger takeaway bar and a cafeteria. Without asking Ali which one he preferred, Ceda pointed towards the cafeteria and grunted.

They each took a tray and tagged on to the short queue. Plastic-wrapped sandwiches and salads were stacked behind a glass-fronted cabinet, and at the next counter a selection of hot dishes steamed under heat lamps.

‘What’ll it be, love?’ the waitress asked when their turn came.

Ali flashed her a disarming smile. ‘The All Day Breakfast looks impossible to resist…’

The waitress reached for a plate and started to shovel on bacon and eggs.

‘…but I’ll go for the cottage pie.’

She glared at him and with a heavy sigh tipped the bacon and eggs back in their containers. ‘Cottage pie? Are you sure?’ she asked, taking a clean plate.

Ali hummed. ‘Yeees,’ he said slowly. ‘I think so.’

He felt a sharp dig in his ribs and looked round to find Ceda staring hard at him.

‘Yes, cottage pie,’ he said with an air of finality.

In an attempt to placate the waitress Ceda helped himself, bustling Ali along to the till, picking up two coffees on the way. When they had paid and were sitting at a table he leaned across and said threateningly, ‘Try that again and I’ll shoot you, in public or not.’

‘What have I done?’ Ali said innocently.

‘Drawn attention to yourself, that’s what. She’ll remember you now, you idiot. If you’d kept your stupid mouth shut you’d be just another customer. But oh no, not you. When the police start asking questions she’ll be able to give them a full description of the two of us. Are you satisfied?’

‘Don’t worry about it. We’ll be long gone by then.’

Afraid lest he lose his temper, Ceda started his food, eating more quickly than he would have liked to, feeling as if the eyes of everyone in the place were upon them. This is not good, he thought. This moron could jeopardize the whole team.

The moment he had finished his food he drained his coffee cup and prepared to leave.

‘Hang on. I’m not ready yet,’ Ali protested.

‘I don’t give a shit. We’re going.’

While they had been eating, Ceda had noticed the rest of the team members arriving in twos and threes. Each group sat alone, acknowledging each other with only the most cursory of glances. When they saw Ceda make a move, they moved too.

Ceda was just making his way out towards the entrance when Ali stopped.

‘I need a leak.’

‘Again? Be quick about it.’

The other teams walked on past, looking at Ceda with sympathy. There was no love lost between any of them and Ali. Through the glass entrance doors Ceda could see the teams making their way towards their new cars. It would all be over soon, he consoled himself. They would soon be out of the country and in the clear, and as soon as they were back home he would speak to the boss and tell him how the choice of Ali had been a disastrous one.

It was the raised voices that first alerted him to the approach of trouble. From inside the toilets Ceda heard a shout followed by scuffling. He moved rapidly towards the entrance but as he rounded the tiled corner a single gunshot rang out.

The sight that greeted him when he burst through the swing door stopped him in his tracks. A man in the blue overalls of a lorry driver lay sprawled across the floor, blood spreading from his chest across the white lino of the floor. Standing over him, Ali looked up at Ceda. In his right hand he held his pistol, smoke seeping from the muzzle.

‘He went for me,’ he said simply, as if that explained everything.

Against the far wall, three other men backed away in horror. The door to one of the cubicles opened and a man came out, his face frozen in fear.

‘You idiot!’ Ceda roared and made a grab for the pistol. But Ali snatched it out of reach, his eyes warning him not to try again.

‘He insulted me, I said. No one calls me names and gets away with it.’

Without stopping to listen Ceda spun on his heel and made for the exit. ‘Come on,’ he shouted at Ali.

In the space of seconds the whole painfully prepared escape procedure had collapsed about him. The pre-positioned cars, the garage hideaway, the recced routes – everything. All to no avail. Within minutes the police would be on to them. Speed was now their only chance – and even that might not save them.