“They were all in on it,” she told Barbara, tossing back a slug of water from an Evian bottle. Her face was shiny with perspiration. “Querashi as well. It's so fucking obvious. He wanted a share of the lolly that Muhannad was having off everyone who hired his illegals. Muhannad wouldn't play. Querashi did a header down the stairs.” Another slug of water. “Look at how easily it worked, Barb. Malik was in and out of his house all the time: meetings of Jum'a, dealing with Reuchlein, shipping illegals all over the country.”
“Not to mention all the traveling he does for the factory,” Barbara added. “Ian Armstrong told me as much.”
“So if he was out on this night or that night, his family would never think a thing of it, would they? He could leave the house, trail Querashi, see his set-up with Hegarty—without even knowing it was Hegarty he was meeting—and choose his moment to give him the chop. With half a dozen alibis at the ready for any night that he was able to pull it off.”
Barbara saw how all of it fitted together. “And then he showed up with his people in tow, ready to protest the death and make himself look innocent.”
“To make it look like he was what he never could be: a brother Muslim to Muslims, intent upon getting to the bottom of Querashi's murder.”
“Because why the hell would he be dogging your heels in pursuit of Querashi's killer if he was the killer?”
“Or so I was intended to think,” Emily said. “Except I never thought it. Not for an instant.”
She paced to the window where the pillowcase that she'd hung a day earlier still shielded the room from the sun. She yanked on it, pulling it down. She leaned out of the window and watched the street. She said, “This is worst part. I hate this part of it.”
The waiting, Barbara thought. The keeping oneself behind the lines in order to direct the troops as information flowed into the station. It was the downside of having attained Emily's position. The DCI couldn't be everywhere at once. She had to rely on the expertise and the sheer doggedness of her team.
“Guv?”
Emily spun from the window. Belinda Warner was at the door. “Who've we heard from?” she said.
“It's that Asian bloke. He's downstairs again. He—”
“What Asian bloke?”
“You know. Mr. Azhar. He's in reception and he's asking for you. Or the sergeant. He said the sergeant would do. Reception said he's all in a twist.”
“Reception?” Emily echoed. “What the hell is he doing in reception? He's supposed to be with Fahd Kumhar. I left him with him. I gave express orders to—” She cut her own words off. “Jesus,” she said, white-faced.
“What?” Barbara was on her feet. The idea of Azhar in a twist brought her to them. The Pakistani was so controlled that the thought of him in a twist about anything had alerted every one of her senses. “What's going on?”
“He wasn't supposed to leave the station,” Emily said. “He was supposed to be kept with Kumhar till we got our mitts on his cousin. But I goddamn bloody hell left the interview room and I forgot to tell reception he wasn't to leave the building.”
“What do you …?” Belinda clearly was looking for direction.
“I'll see to him,” Emily snapped.
Barbara followed her. They took the corridor and the stairs at a trot. On the ground floor, Taymullah Azhar paced the reception cubicle.
“Barbara!” he cried as he caught sight of their approach. All effort at obfuscation dissolved in a moment of what was clearly panic. His face was frantic. “Barbara, she's gone. He's taken Hadiyyah.”
• • •
“CHRIST,” BARBARA SAID, and she meant it as a prayer. “Azhar, what? Jesus. Are you sure?”
“I went back to the hotel. I'd finished here. Mr. Treves told me. Mrs. Porter was with her. She remembered him from the other night. She'd seen us together. You remember. In the bar. She thought it was all arranged …” He was two steps away from hyperventilating.
Impulsively, Barbara put an arm round his shoulders. “We'll get her,” she said, squeezing him hard. “Azhar, we'll get her. I swear it. I promise you we'll get her back.”
“What the hell is going on?” Emily demanded.
“Hadiyyah's his daughter. She's eight years old. Muhannad's taken her. Obviously, she thought it was okay to go with him.”
“She knows never to go,” Azhar said. “A stranger. She knows that. Never. Never,”
“Except Muhannad isn't a stranger to her,” Barbara reminded him. “Not any longer. She told him she wanted to meet his wife and his children. Remember, Azhar? You heard her when she said it. So did I. And you had no reason to think …” She felt the agitated need to absolve him of the guilt that she knew he was feeling. But she couldn't do it. This was his child.
“What the hell is this?” Emily demanded once again.
“I told you. Hadiyyah—”
“I don't give a fuck for Hadiyyah, whoever she is. D'you know these people, Sergeant Havers? And if so, exactly how many of them do you know?”
Barbara saw her error. It lay in her arm that still encompassed Azhar's shoulders. It lay in the knowledge which she'd just revealed herself to possess. Frantically, she cast through her mind for something to say, but there was nothing but the truth to offer and no time to explain it.
Azhar spoke again. “He asked her if she liked the sea. Mrs. Porter heard that much. ‘D'you like the sea? Shall we have ourselves a sea adventure?’ He said that as they were walking off. Mrs. Porter heard. Barbara, he's taken—”
“Good Christ. A boat.” Barbara's glance flew to Emily. There was no time either to explain or to placate. She knew where Muhannad Malik had gone. She knew what he planned. “He's taken a boat from the Balford Marina. From East Essex Boat Hire, just like before. Hadiyyah thinks it's a day cruise on the North Sea. But he's heading for the continent. He has to be. It's crazy. It's too far. But that's what he's doing. Because of Hamburg. Because of Reuchlein. And Hadiyyah's his insurance that we don't stop him. We need the Coast Guard after him, Em.”
Emily Barlow didn't reply in words. But her answer was written upon her features, and what her features were saying had nothing to do with tracking a killer across the sea. The realisation of Barbara's deception was playing over her face, thinning her lips and tightening her jaw.
“Em,” Barbara said, frantic to get them past the moment. “I know them from London. Azhar. Hadiyyah. That's it. That's all. For God's sake, Em—”
“I can't believe it.” Emily's eyes seemed to burn into hers. “You of all people.”
“Barbara …” Azhar's voice was anguished.
“I didn't know you were in charge of the case until I got to Balford,” Barbara said.
“You were out of line no matter who was in charge.”
“Okay. I know it. I was out of line.” In agitation, Barbara sought something to move the DCI into action. “Em, I wanted to keep them out of trouble. I was worried about them.”
“And I played into your hands, didn't I?”
“What I did was wrong. I should have told you. You can make a report to my super if you want. But later. Later.”
“Please.” Azhar spoke the word like a prayer.
“So fucking unprofessional, Havers.” It was as if the DCI hadn't heard a word.
“Yes. All right,” Barbara said. “Unprofessional. Unprofessional as hell. But the way I did my job's not the point. We need the Coast Guard if we want to nab Muhannad. Now, Em. We need the Coast Guard now.”
No response from the DCI.
“Jesus, Em,” Barbara finally cried. “Is this about murder, or is this about you?”
The final remark was manipulative and rotten, and Barbara despised herself the moment she said it. But the implied judgement achieved the response that Barbara sought.
Emily shot a look at Azhar, then another at Barbara. Then she took up the reins of the case.
“The Coast Guard's no good to us.” And without further explanation, she spun round and strode towards the back
of the station.
Barbara said, “Come on,” and grabbed Azhar's arm.
Emily paused at the door of a room filled with computers and communication equipment. She said tersely, “Get on to PC Fogarty. Send the ARV to Balford Marina. Our man's on the sea, and he's taken a hostage. Tell Fogarty I want a Glock 17 and an MP5.”
And Barbara understood why Emily had vetoed the idea of the Coast Guard. Their boats carried no weapons; their officers weren't armed. And the DCI was calling for the department's Armed Response Vehicle.
Shit, Barbara thought fervently. She tried to drive from her mind the picture of Hadiyyah caught in a crossfire of bullets. “Come on,” she said to Azhar again.
“What's she …?”
“She's going after him. We're going as well.” It was, Barbara thought, the best bet she could make to keep the worst from happening to her little London friend.
Emily stode through the weight room with Azhar and Barbara hard on her heels. Behind the station, she took possession of a panda car. She had it started, its lights revolving, by the time Barbara and Azhar climbed in.
Emily looked at the two of them. “He stays,” she said. And to Azhar, “Get out.” And when the man didn't move fast enough, she snarled, “Goddamn it, I said get out. I've had enough of you. I've had enough of all of you. Get out of the car.”
Azhar looked to Barbara. Barbara couldn't tell what he wanted of her, and even had she known, she couldn't have given it. Compromise was the best she could offer. She said, “We'll get her, Azhar. Stay here.”
He said, “Please. Allow me. She's all that I have. She's all that I love.”
Emily narrowed her eyes. “Tell that to the wife and kids in Houn-slow. I'm sure they'd be thrilled to hear the news. Now, get out, Mr. Azhar, before I call for an officer to help you do it.”
Barbara swung round in her seat. “Azhar,” she said. He tore his gaze from the DCI. “I love her, too. I'll bring her back. You wait here.”
Reluctantly, as if the effort cost him everything he had, the man got out of the car. When he'd shut the door, Emily tramped on the accelerator. They shot out of the car park and into the street. Emily flipped on the siren.
“What the fuck were you thinking?” she demanded. “What kind of cop are you?”
They roared to the top of Martello Road. Traffic in the High Street halted. They bore right and tore in the direction of the sea.
“How many times could you have told me the truth in the last four days? Ten? A dozen?”
“I would have told you, but—”
“Stuff it,” Emily said. “Don't bother to explain.”
“When you asked me to liaise, I should have told you. But you would've pulled back, and I would've been in the dark. I was worried about them. He's a university professor. I thought he was in way over his head.”
“Oh yeah,” Emily scoffed. “He's in as much over his head as I am.”
“I didn't know that. How could I have known?”
“You tell me.”
She veered into Mill Lane. A delivery van was parked too far into the street, with its driver loading cardboard boxes marked TYPOGRAPHIC onto a dolly. Emily dodged to miss both the van and its driver. She steered the car onto the pavement with a curse. The car knocked over a dust bin and a bicycle. Barbara grabbed for the dashboard as Emily jerked the vehicle back into the street.
“I didn't know he did all this legal stuff on the side. I only knew him as my neighbour. I knew he was coming here. Yes, right. But he didn't know I'd follow him. I know his daughter, Em. She's a friend.”
“An eight-year-old friend? Jesus. Spare me this part of the tale.”
“Em—”
“Just bloody shut up, all right?”
Back at Balford Marina for the second time that day, they grabbed a loud hailer from the panda's boot and sprinted across the car park to East Essex Boat Hire. Charlie Spencer confirmed that Muhannad Malik had taken out a motor boat. “A nice little diesel for a proper long ride. Had a cute little doll with him as well,” Charlie said. “His cousin, she told me. Never been in a boat before. She was all in a dither about going for a sail.”
By Charlie's reckoning, Muhannad had a forty-minute start on them and had the diesel boat he'd chosen been a fishing craft, he'd have got not much farther than the point at which Pennyhole Bay met the North Sea. But the craft he was sailing had more power than a fishing boat and enough range to take him all the way to the continent. They'd need a real fighter to challenge him, and Emily saw it gleaming in the sunlight from its position above the pontoon where Charlie had it winched out of the water.
“I'll have the Sea Wizard,” she said.
Charlie gulped. He said, “Hang on. I don't know—”
“You don't have to know,” Emily told him. “You just have to get it into the water and hand over the keys. This is a police matter. You've hired a boat to a murderer. The kid's his hostage. So put the Sea Wizard into the water and give me a pair of binoculars as well.”
Charlie's mouth dropped open at this piece of news. He handed over the keys. By the time he'd accompanied Emily and Barbara down the pontoon and had lowered the Hawk 31 into the water, the police Armed Response Vehicle was pulling into the car park, lights flashing and siren wailing.
PC Fogarty came on the run. He had a holstered pistol in one hand and a carbine in the other.
“Give us a hand, Mike,” Emily ordered as she leapt aboard the boat. She began tearing off the protective blue canvas, exposing the cockpit. She tossed this over her shoulder and shoved the keys into the ignition. By the time PC Fogarty had gone below to scout out the nautical charts, Emily was purging the fumes from the engine compartment. Within two minutes, she was gunning the motor.
The boat was berthed bow-in. Emily reversed it into the harbour, in a cloud of exhaust fumes. Charlie paced the narrow space of the pontoon, biting the knuckles of his index finger. “Take care of her, for God's bloody sake,” he yelled. “She's all I have, and she's worth a ransom.”
A shiver ran down Barbara's spine. She's all I have echoed in her head. Even as she heard the repetition, she saw Azhar's Golf bearing down on the car park of the marina. He parked haphazardly in the middle of the tarmac. He left the car door hanging open. He ran to the pontoon. He didn't attempt to intercept them. But his eyes were fixed to Barbara's as Emily steered the boat into the deeper water of the Twizzle, the tributary that fed the tidal marshes to the east of the harbour, taking its source from the Balford Channel to the west.
Don't worry, Barbara told him mentally. I'll get her, Azhar. I swear it. I swear. Hadiyyah won't be harmed.
But she'd been round murder investigations long enough to know that there was no guarantee of anyone's safety when a killer was being run to ground. And the fact that Muhannad Malik had no compunction about enslaving his own people while wearing the guise of their ardent advocate suggested that he'd have even less compunction when it came to the safety of an eight-year-old girl.
Barbara raised a thumbs-up at Azhar, knowing no other sign to send him. She turned away from the marina then, and faced the tributary that would take them to the sea.
The speed limit was five knots. And in the late afternoon, returning boats filled with holidaymakers made the going treacherous. But Emily ignored the warnings. She fumbled her sunglasses to her face, braced her legs for balance, and took their speed up as high as she could take it and still continue to navigate the waterway in safety.
“Turn on the radio,” she told PC Fogarty. “Get on to headquarters. Tell them where we are. See if we can get a helicopter to sight him.”
“Right.” The constable set his weapons on one of the boat's vinyl seats. He began flipping switches on the console, calling out arcane letters and numbers. He pressed a switch on the microphone as he spoke. He listened earnestly for a response to crackle back.
Barbara joined Emily. Two seats faced the bow. But neither woman sat. They stood, the better to have a wider scope as they scanned the water. Bar
bara grabbed the binoculars and looped them round her neck.
“We need a reading for Germany.” Emily interrupted Fogarty, who was still shouting into the radio but bringing up no one. “The mouth of the Elbe. Find it.”
He turned up the sound on the radio's receiver, set the microphone down, and gave himself to the charts.
“You agree that's what he'll try for?” Barbara called to Emily over the boat's motor.
“It's the logical choice. He's got partners in Hamburg. He'll need documents. A safe house. A place to lie low until he can get back to Pakistan, where God only knows—”
“We've got sand banks in the bay,” Fogarty cut in. “Watch for the buoys. After that, set your course for zero-six-zero degrees.” He tossed the chart into the galley below.
“What's that?” Emily cocked her head as if in the need to hear.
“Your reading, Guv.” Fogarty went for the radio again. “Zero-six-zero.”
“My reading on what?”
Fogarty stared at her, nonplussed. “You don't sail?”
“I row, goddamn it. Gary sails. You know that. Now, what the hell's supposed to be at zero-six-zero?”
Fogarty recovered. He slapped his hand on the top of the compass. “Steer to zero-six-zero on this,” he said. “If he's heading for Hamburg, that's the reading for the first leg of the journey.”
Emily nodded and gunned the motor, sending a wake throbbing towards both sides of the channel.
The west side of the Nez was on their right; the tidal islands of that stretch of marshland called the Wade was on their left. The tide was high, but the hour was late for sailing, so the channel was congested as recreational sailors headed for their berths in the marina. Emily kept to the centre of the channel, pushing the speed as much as she dared. When they sighted the buoys marking the point at which the channel gave over to the greater channel that was Hamford Water and the outlet to the sea, she pushed forward on the throttle. The powerful engines answered. The bow of the boat lifted, then slapped against the water. PC Fogarty briefly lost his footing; Barbara grabbed onto the handrail as the Sea Wizard leapt into Hamford Water.