Black Quarry Farm

by Iain Cameron

  It was a shame to bash in such a beautiful door, teal blue with brass fittings, befitting what was no doubt a smart house inside, but bash it they did. Walters had found details of a similar house nearby so the assault team weren’t vexed by the need to climb multiple sets of stairs once they entered this three-storied property.

  The ground-floor rooms looked unused, and soon they trooped upstairs to the next level. What threw everyone was the sheer opulence of the lounge. It was huge, with a jukebox, gigantic fish tank recessed into the wall, stairs leading up to a small roof terrace. This guy either had taste, or knew a good interior designer.

  Walters quickly sussed that the couple had been necking, as the designer gear worn by the model sitting on the settee looked dishevelled. A quick look at the garden terrace and Walters could see it was walled on all sides to maintain privacy, and unless Tariq doubled up as a free runner in his spare time, he was still inside the house.

  She left Lisa to take care of Shah’s date, now crying and shaking like a leaf, while she and the other officers ran from room to room, of which there were many, shouting ‘Clear!’ Through a process of elimination, they gathered outside a locked bathroom on the top floor of the house, by her estimation, directly above the lounge. The team split and moved to cover both sides of the door.

  ‘Tariq, this is Detective Sergeant Walters, Sussex Police. You are outnumbered. Come out now with your hands showing!’

  ‘Go fuck yourself cop, I’m not coming out,’ the fugitive replied.

  Bang! Bang!

  Two shots rang out, punching holes in the ornate, opaque glass inserts in the bathroom door. Everyone had been expecting this and kept their heads down, the slugs now safely embedded in the plaster of the thick wall opposite.

  ‘This is your last chance, Tariq. Come out now or risk being shot.’

  She heard a noise like the latch of a window opening.

  ‘He’s trying to get out of the window! Knock the bloody door down!’

  A heavily clad ART officer stood and, bravely exposing himself to the shooter’s line of fire, applied two swift boots to the door. It swung open without any further shots being fired, but when they looked inside the bathroom, Tariq Shah had gone.

  Throwing caution to one side, Walters ran in first. The bathroom window was tall, and even before reaching it, she could see the windows of the houses on the other side of the street. She peered out gingerly and saw Tariq a floor below, running along a balcony that stretched along the whole building. He had climbed through the bathroom window and somehow dropped down to the balcony.

  She turned and instructed several officers to move outside and make sure he didn’t escape by sliding down a drainpipe. She then ran downstairs, and after unlocking one of the floor-to-ceiling windows in the lounge, ran across the balcony after him.

  The dividing barrier between the balcony on Tariq Shah’s house and the one next door was a simple steel gate, which she easily climbed over. She realised if Shah turned around now, still with the gun in his hand, she would be a sitting duck with only a couple of ornamental plant pots to hide behind.

  He was about two houses in front of her, each of them offering no more difficulty than a metre-high gate, but to reach the next stage would require a bit more effort. For a reason which she assumed had something to do with the elevation of the street, the next set of houses in the terrace and their balconies were about half a metre higher than the one they were on.

  A commotion on the street below drew her attention. She peered over the side of the balcony to see PC Ross McLean, one of the ART officers, trying to instruct some passers-by to stand back. Instead of complying, they were looking up at the man climbing over the balconies, and taking pictures and videos on their smart phones.

  When he reached the upper set of balconies, Shah put one foot on the concrete balcony platform half a metre up, and, placing his hands on the gate in front of him, pulled himself up. He then stepped up on the balcony rail, intending to use this additional height to climb the rail of the upper balcony.

  In a momentary pause, he heard the hubbub going on in the street below and, without moving any further, raised his gun. At first Walters thought he was about to shoot the people who were taking his picture, before realising he was aiming at PC McLean.

  ‘Ross watch out!’ she shouted.

  Tariq turned his head and, seeing Walters, swung the gun round in her direction. At that moment, his right foot lost its grip, and he stumbled. For a second, it looked as though he had recovered, but instead, he careered over the side. The gun fired towards Walters as he fell, before he hit the concrete below with a sickening crunch.

  FORTY-TWO

  Close to the time DS Walters and her team were approaching Tariq Shah’s house in Chelsea, DI Henderson and his team arrived at an apartment complex called Alder Lodge in Fulham.

  The complex was next to the River Thames. It wouldn’t be Henderson’s choice to live so close to London’s main river, as he knew it was tidal, its level rising and falling several metres every day, considerably more at the equinoxes. Kazem wouldn’t be too bothered as he lived on the third floor, but sometimes he might get his Gucci shoes wet as he walked towards his Porsche Carrera, currently parked and being watched by an armed officer in the underground car park.

  The team, consisting of six heavily armed individuals and the more lightly armed Sussex Detectives Neal, Graham, and Henderson, entered the thickly carpeted reception area. Henderson explained to the concierge the reason for their presence, and for a moment he was sure the man was about to put up some objection.

  It wasn’t uncommon to find people with antipathy towards the police, but most didn’t make their objection so obvious. He had either been a victim of crime and felt the investigating officers didn’t do enough, or he was engaged in some criminal enterprise himself and felt uncomfortable to have so many coppers in his vicinity. He didn’t dare refuse in case someone shoved the barrel of an H&K in his face, but that didn’t mean he cooperated with any degree of willingness.

  Henderson left one of the armed team on the ground floor to guard the entrance to the lift and the exit from the stairs, while the remainder climbed into the lift.

  The third floor, no doubt in common with all the other floors in the building, was carpeted in thick pile, the corridor illuminated by recessed lighting and the walls painted in a soothing pastel colour, the overall effect exuding the charm and feel of a luxury four- or five-star hotel. By way of contrast, the dark Kevlar kit and scratched H&K carbines looked harsh and incongruous against the soft environment all around them.

  Apartment 312 lay halfway along one corridor. He positioned the team either side of the door as the officer carrying the door banger lined up. Two bangs and the solid wooden door swung open.

  ‘Armed police!’ Henderson shouted. ‘Come out with your hands where I can see them.’

  The armed team piled in, moving swiftly from room to room calling ‘Clear!’ as they went, until everyone reached the remaining closed door. By Henderson’s reckoning, the living room probably with panoramic views over the river.

  A gloved hand stretched out, turned the handle, and pushed open the door. The panoramic view was there for all to see, but Kazem Shah wasn’t.

  For a moment Henderson’s mind processed the scene, drew conclusions, and considered options. They knew Shah was at home as a surveillance team had seen him drive into the underground car park and they’d watched him move around in his apartment. The only way he could go was down or up, using the lift or stairs, as this apartment didn’t have a balcony or a private lift.

  Henderson pulled out his radio and called the officer on the ground floor. ‘He’s not here, he’s scarpered. Is there any sign of him down there?’

  ‘No sir, I haven’t seen him. I think maybe the concierge gave him a warning. He lifted the phone and spoke furtively to someone almost as soon as you guys got into the lift.’

  ‘I’ll deal with him later. Stay where you are. We’r
e going up.’

  Henderson ran towards the lift, leaving the other officers in his wake. He’d noticed earlier when looking at the lift directory, a roof garden was located on the top floor. To the impatient DI the lift seemed to be taking ages to get there, but in reality, this being a new development, it was super-fast.

  With caution, Henderson and the others exited the lift into a large pergola-covered space replete with climbing plants, chairs, and sun loungers.

  ‘Spread out,’ Henderson ordered.

  They stepped through the roof garden, looking left and right as the thick foliage growing over the pergola and down could easily shield their suspect. To Henderson, it looked like something to be found in a city centre hotel in Lisbon or Madrid, a place where the thick foliage would help dampen the intense heat of the day. In the UK, with fewer sunny days, he imagined people would prefer to gravitate towards a space where the sun could penetrate.

  Henderson was about to reach the garden’s Thames-side edge when he heard an officer shout, ‘There he is!’

  Henderson ran towards the voice. The officer was pointing down to the gardens bordering the apartment complex.

  ‘See him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘There, behind that large bush!’

  ‘I see him!’ Shah was sprinting with purpose, but to where? Henderson scanned along the river in the same direction Shah was running. At a mooring, not far from the apartment complex, he spotted a speedboat.

  ‘How do I get down there?’ he asked the officers standing close to him.

  ‘There!’ DS Neal said, pointing.

  Henderson ran towards a fire escape ladder. Without hesitating or thinking that he hated climbing ladders and didn’t much like heights, he swung his leg over and descended as fast as he could. It was always easier going down a ladder than up, as the sanctuary of terra firma getting nearer was comforting, while he could descend without looking down.

  When he reached the bottom, he ran, shaking his hands to lose the burning sensation from sliding down several rungs, as he tried to gain a few vital seconds. He ran though the gardens and, although he couldn’t see the speedboat, he could hear it. Shah had just started the engine.

  Henderson reached the Thames Path as Shah released the mooring and began to pull away from the dock. The DI reached for his gun, but was forced to dive for cover behind a waste bin as Shah pointed a gun at him. A bullet pinged off the bin’s lid and another smacked into its body, but fortunately it didn’t penetrate.

  He was pinned down, resigned to losing his prey when the ART officer who had been guarding the front door of the apartment block came running towards him. He knelt, steadied his aim, and fired a short burst. The Heckler and Koch carbine in his hands was a more powerful weapon and had a longer reach than Henderson’s handgun, and it was no surprise to hear the rounds whacking into the hull of the speedboat.

  Seconds later it became obvious the speedboat had been holed, as it was sinking lower and lower in the water. In less than a minute, the speedboat stopped moving and Shah was forced to abandon ship, jumping with some reluctance into the grey, cold water.

  If he was a good swimmer, he could try and make the other bank, Putney, but the Thames had very strong currents and it was very unlikely he would end up there. Henderson would put a call through to the Marine Police to have him picked up.

  ‘Wise man,’ the officer who’d fired at the boat said, ‘he’s coming back this way. I try to swim every day, and would never attempt to swim across this river, even if you paid me. It’s bloody treacherous.’

  ‘Just as well he is,’ Henderson said clapping him on the back, ‘I was about to ask you to go in the water after him.’

  FORTY-THREE

  Henderson and DS Neal walked into the Interview Room. Seated there were Kazem Shah and his solicitor from a top London firm, Hussein Ali. In common with his namesake, the boxer Mohammed Ali, this legal eagle was also pugnacious, resilient, and didn’t take no for an answer.

  The last interview he did on this case, with Nazir Kazi, one of the five factory workers arrested at S&H Oriental Fashions, was more of an informal discussion than an interview. This one would be done by the book.

  Henderson had now met both Shah brothers and they were like chalk and cheese. Tariq was small and stocky in stature, quietly spoken, and if you didn’t know he carried a gun and killed people for a living, almost bookish. By way of contrast, Kazem was big and muscled, ugly to the point of menacing, and didn’t look like he would know one end of a book from another.

  He had talked briefly to Tariq from a hospital bed where he was being treated for, among other things, a fractured spine. His fall from the balcony in Langton Street hadn’t been high, about four metres above street level, but most of the houses in the area were equipped with basements. He fell into one, adding more to his fall. It would be small consolation for a man who might not be able to walk again to hear, but he’d missed impaling himself on the spikes of the metal fence by centimetres.

  The search of the men’s apartments revealed plenty, the most interesting being the weapons. They’d uncovered two Mac 10s, one in Tariq’s apartment and the other in Kazem’s, the weapons used to kill John and Lara Beech. They also found the brothers’ weapons of choice: a Sig-Sauer 320 pistol for Kazem, and a Beretta belonging to Tariq.

  The Sig was the gun used in the killing of Robert Saunders, Ibrahim Nazari, and the wounding of Faisal Baqri, but neither of those weapons was used to kill Baqri. The gun in question was discovered in a safe at Gohar Cheema’s house in West Farleigh.

  ‘What’s your relationship with Gohar Cheema?’ Henderson asked.

  ‘He’s my uncle.’

  ‘I’m well aware of that, but what I mean is, are you close?’

  ‘Close enough.’

  ‘Are you an employee of his company, or a sub-contractor, only working when needed?’

  ‘The last one.’

  ‘You’re extremely well paid for only being a casual worker.’

  ‘You use a pejorative term, Inspector,’ the expensive solicitor interjected.

  ‘I suppose it is.’ He nodded at Neal who placed bank statements in front of their suspect.

  ‘Fifty grand here, a hundred grand there,’ Henderson said. ‘I think this is well-paid, lucrative work in anybody’s book.’

  ‘Is there any point to these questions, Inspector?’ Ali asked.

  ‘I’m trying to establish the relationship between Mr Cheema and his nephew. We know Mr Cheema is running a large drug importation operation–’

  ‘It is alleged,’ Ali said.

  ‘No, Mr Ali. We know Mr Cheema ran a large drug import operation, there’s no doubt about it. What I want to know now is if Kazem was an integral part of this organisation, or only undertook work when his uncle demanded it.’

  ‘No comment,’ Shah said.

  ‘What did your uncle say when he realised you’d made a balls-up of killing Robert Saunders, and killed two innocent people at Black Quarry Farm instead? I bet he was well annoyed. Did he give you a good telling-off?’

  Shah’s face reddened and Henderson wasn’t sure if it was due to embarrassment or anger. ‘He can’t ask me that, can he?’ Shah said, turning to his lawyer.

  Henderson waited for his brief to respond. Yes, he could ask, he could even pull a ballistics report to back it up.

  ‘No comment,’ Shah said at last.

  ‘We can go on with this ‘no comment’ lark all morning if you like, but there is overwhelming evidence, which I know you and Mr Ali have seen, proving you, Kazem Shah, shot John and Lara Beech, Robert Saunders, and Ibrahim Nazari. You will be convicted of these offences and you’ll go to jail for them.’

  ‘You told me they wouldn’t do this,’ Kazem said to his brief. ‘You told me you could help me avoid it.’

  ‘Calm down, Kazem. He’s bluffing.’

  ‘Bluffing, am I? Don’t you believe him Kazem, the weight of evidence is against you. You’re going to jail for a very long
time, my friend.’

  ‘As you say, Inspector, you have the evidence,’ Ali said. ‘Why do you still feel the need to question, and indeed, harass my client?’

  ‘I thought it would be obvious, Mr Ali. I want to establish what motive lay behind it. I have my theories and I want to see if they are right.’

  ‘Okay then, smart-arse. What do you think happened with Saunders?’ Shah asked.

  ‘I think because he had been fleeced by his former girlfriend he was in desperate need of money and, stupid as it sounds as he must have known about his violent reputation, he stole from your uncle.’

  ‘He didn’t need it. He nicked one and a half million from us because he was a greedy bastard.’

  Henderson took note of his use of the word ‘us’. There was no doubt in his mind the Shah brothers were intimately involved in the drugs business, but he wanted to hear him admit it. This wasn’t because of a lack of charges against him, or a fear they wouldn’t stick, but for an understanding of the whole story. What made this man kill four, or was it five, people, maybe more for all he knew.

  ‘I find it ironic to hear drug dealers getting on their high horse about other people’s greed. What is the drug business all about, but greed?’

  ‘You’re the one on the fucking high horse,’ Shah said, his face twisted in malevolence. ‘It’s one of the unwritten rules; never steal from the boss or they get this,’ he said, running his hand across his throat as if holding a knife. ‘And the same goes for you for putting me in this place.’

  ‘Are you threatening me? Because, let me tell you son, I don’t scare easily.’

  ‘You don’t, eh?’ Shah made to rise, but Ali’s hand shot out and stopped him. The lawyer said something tersely into his client’s ear, making him slump back in his seat.

  Henderson waited a second or two to allow Shah to regain his composure. ‘What did Nazari do wrong?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Ibrahim Nazari. Two bullets to the chest and one to the head. Sainsbury’s car park in Sevenoaks, in case you’ve forgotten.’