Kashmir Rescue. Doug Armstrong
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‘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