Deadly Terror by Rachel McLean, book 4 in the Zoe Finch series - Chapter 1

Sameena Khan hated shopping.

Even more, she hated shopping for shoes with her fifteen-year-old daughter Jamila.

For what seemed like the hundredth time in the last hour, Jamila picked up a pair of unsuitable shoes and shoved them in her mum’s direction, eyebrows raised.

Sameena shook her head. “You know the answer.”

“But Sarah’s got these.”

Sameena eyed the shoes. Black patent – at least the colour was sensible – with a tiny pink bow on the back – not in the uniform guidance – and a two-inch heel. Where would she start?

She sighed. “You know the rules. Flat, plain, black. Surely it can’t be that hard to find a pair you’re prepared to wear?”

“All the ones you like are disgusting.”

“Disgusting? They’re just plain black shoes.” Sameena poked a slender foot out in front of her, turning it this way and that. “Like mine.”

Jamila wrinkled her nose as if Sameena had let off a stink bomb. “Exactly.”

Sameena checked her watch: gone three. She needed to be home by four thirty, to take Khaled to his football practice and then cook dinner. “Come on. I’m taking you to Clarks.” She grabbed her daughter’s sleeve and moved towards the shop exit.

“Mum!” Jamila tugged her arm from her mother’s grasp, so violently that Sameena thought she might topple over. A tall white woman beside them looked round and pushed her glasses up her nose. Sameena wanted to tell her to mind her own business.

“There is no way I’m getting shoes from Clarks.” Jamila folded her arms across her chest. The white woman chuckled and moved away. Sameena felt heat rise up her neck.

“You’re making a scene.”

“I’m making a scene? You’re the one manhandling me in Hobbs.”

“Let’s just get out of here, alright? We can get a coffee or something. Work out where to go next.”

“Only if you buy me a muffin.”

Sameena gritted her teeth. “A small one.”

A smile spread across her daughter’s face. “You know what’s even better than a muffin? Let’s have churros.”

“We don’t have time.”

“It’s just over there.” Jamila pointed over her mum’s shoulder. “Come on, they’re dope.”

Sameena let her daughter guide her out of the shop and through the crush of Saturday afternoon shoppers. Unlike the rest of Birmingham this afternoon, Grand Central, the shopping centre over New Street Station, was at least dry. Which explained why it was so busy today.

They passed the escalators just as a young woman wearing a green headscarf tumbled off and towards them. Sameena glanced at her, wondering if she’d been pushed. The woman gave her a wary stare and picked up pace, brushing past the two of them as she hurried away.

“Oi,” muttered Jamila.

“Shush,” Sameena said.

“She hit me.”

“She touched your arm with hers. That’s hardly hitting.”

Jamila rounded on her mum. “Are you saying I’m lying?”

Sameena took a deep breath. After the churros, she would take the girl home. She could wear her old shoes for another week. Gaping sole or no gaping sole.

“Come on,” she said. “Let’s get those churros.”

“Bitch.” Jamila rubbed her arm.

Sameena grabbed her hand. “I beg your pardon?”

“Not you. Her.” Jamila jerked her head towards the woman, who’d stopped at the barrier overlooking the station concourse and was leaning over. Sameena felt her heart stutter. She wasn’t going to jump, was she?

Sameena flicked her gaze down to the crowded concourse below and back to the woman in the headscarf. The woman had straightened. She scanned the roof as if expecting to see something specific up there.

“I don’t like you talking like that,” Sameena said, dragging her focus back to Jamila. There was something about the woman that made her uneasy.

“It’s not a swear word.”

“Would you say it to a teacher?”

“Course not.”

“Well, then. Don’t say it to anyone.”

“But she hit me.”

They were approaching the woman. Sameena made for the opposite side of the walkway, steering away from her. But Jamila was insistent on approaching her.

“Jamila!” she hissed. “Get over here. D’you want those churros, or not?”

Jamila gave her a dismissive wave and stopped a couple of paces behind the woman. The woman was oblivious to her, staring across the void over the station concourse. Sameena followed her gaze and saw a man, standing in the midst of a throng of moving people like a boulder in a fast-flowing river. He stared back at the woman, his eyes hard.

“You hit me,” Jamila said. She reached her hand towards the woman but didn’t touch her.

The woman’s eyes were locked on the man. He was heavily-built, wearing a hoody pulled up over a baseball cap. The steel in his eyes made Sameena shiver.

She grabbed Jamila’s shoulder. “Stop it, Jamila. Leave her alone.”

The woman shifted her weight, aware of Sameena and Jamila but not turning to them. She straightened, her eyes still on the man. For a split second she dipped her body, as if about to fall or throw herself over the railing. Sameena felt her breath catch in her chest.

“Are you OK?” she asked.

The woman had something in her hand. She gripped it.

A weapon?

Jamila was right. The woman was dangerous. But she looked scared, more than anything.

Sameena’s training kicked in. As a social worker she was used to dealing with volatile and uncooperative people.

“Jamila, I need you to get away from here right now. Walk over there, to the churros stall. Wait for me.”

Jamila turned. She must have seen the fear in her mother’s eyes, because for the first time today she did as she was told.

When Jamila was safely out of the way, Sameena took a step forward. Her heart raced and her lips were dry.

“Are you alright? Do you need help? You’re not going to jump, are you?”

The woman turned to face Sameena. On the other side of the void, the man unfolded his arms and scratched his neck. Sameena caught a glimpse of a tattoo before he disappeared into the crowd.

“Leave me alone,” the woman said. She had an accent.

“I can help you.”

The woman shook her head. She was sweating.

“Go. Now.”

Sameena took another step forward. “It’s OK, I’m not going to hurt you. I just don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

The woman flicked her wrists, her eyes on Sameena’s face. Her coat – a cheap one made of blue polyester – fell open. Sameena looked down at her chest. She sucked in a breath.

She wore a kind of rucksack strapped to her chest. Wires trailed from it. It was dark, faintly reflective.

The object in her hand, Sameena realised, wasn’t a weapon.

It was a detonator.

The woman’s face tightened. Sweat beaded on her brow. Her nostrils flared as she blinked at Sameena. She was young, not more than twenty-five, and she looked as if she hadn’t had a good meal for a while.

Sameena stared back at her, the words gone from her head.

The woman’s breathing slowed. She stared back at Sameena, her eyes full of terror.

“Run,” she said.