by Iain Cameron
The tunnel was small, only two lanes, one each way. All it took was a shunt or an overheating car, or, more common nowadays, an electric vehicle running out of battery, for it to be blocked for hours. It was the main river crossing for a large part of east London, and he remembered the frustration and expletives of a neighbour who occasionally took a teenage Matt to watch football matches at Selhurst Park, the south London home of Crystal Palace.
He drove through Limehouse, much gentrified with offices and apartment blocks, and into Stepney, which by way of contrast looked untouched by all the money and changes heaped on its neighbour.
In a road close to Stepney Green, the van pulled into the side of the road and parked. The road was short and quiet and Matt had no choice but to drive past and find a place to stop in the next street. He got out of the car and quickly walked back to the road in search of the van. The driver had got out and was standing at the door looking left and right. His eyes settled on Matt, and he immediately turned and legged it.
Matt ran after him, soon gaining on him, the work he had been doing in the gym on his aerobics, mainly running and cycling, serving to keep his stamina up. The guy didn’t appear to have a clue where he was going, as he turned into a dead-end alleyway, overlooked on three sides by tall blocks of flats. Matt changed his view about it not being a deliberate act when the guy turned with a knife in his hand and a hard and determined look on his face. It was a good spot for a knifing as the blocks of flats were side on, with few windows directly overlooking the alleyway.
The guy beckoned him forward by waggling his fingers in a ‘come here’ gesture. If unarmed, Matt would have done the opposite and hightailed it. The knife was steady in his hand and the guy looked as if he knew what he was doing. A well-placed or even a lucky slash with a blade as big as the one he was holding could do some damage, maybe even sever an artery, resulting in severe blood loss.
Matt pulled out his gun and pointed it at the guy’s head. It was interesting to see his expression change from one of confidence to one of shock, but the knife remained in his hand.
‘Put the knife down,’ Matt said sternly.
No reaction.
Perhaps he couldn’t speak English, so Matt gestured instead.
Still no reaction.
Slowly, Matt lowered the gun and pointed it at the guy’s wedding tackle. ‘Put the knife down or I shoot.’
‘Okay, okay,’ he said holding one hand up in a placatory gesture, ‘I will.’ He put the knife down on the ground.
‘Kick it to me.’
He did as he was told. Matt walked forward, picked it up and put it into his jacket pocket.
Matt moved towards the guy. He obviously didn’t know what to expect, if Matt was going to pull out handcuffs or cuff him around the ear, but he was definitely shocked when Matt kicked him in the balls and punched him in the side of the head. ‘That’s for pulling a knife on me.’
While he was laying on the deck, Matt frisked him for other weapons. Finding none, he pulled him into a sitting position and from behind wrapped an arm around his neck.
‘Right mate, what’s your name?’
He shook his head, but when Matt raised a fist, he said, ‘Ash, Ash Nahim.’
‘Your van,’ Matt growled, ‘transported the body of a friend of mine to Epping Forest. Do you hear what I’m saying?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t care if you were driving or not, I want to know who killed him, and if you don’t tell me, I’m going to shoot you. Understand?’
‘Yes,’ he croaked in a wavering voice.
‘You’ve picked a good spot here, Ash. Nobody will take a blind bit of notice if I shoot you, or hear any cries you make.’
‘I only had to drive the van. It is my van. I owe money to a man because I like to gamble. This way I pay off my debts.’
‘Who killed the man in the van?’
‘I do not know.’
‘Who was in the van with you when you drove to Epping Forest?’
‘I did not know them. No, no, I did not mean to say that. I only supplied the van.’
Matt lifted his fist and this time he punched him on the face. ‘Listen mate and understand this, I’m serious. You will die here today if you don’t tell me what I want to know.’
This wasn’t a bluff, he was in the mood to beat this swine to death. He felt sure this individual was one of the final links in the David Burke chain, and his only chance to find the end of it. If Ash Nahim got into an interview room and got lawyered up, they would have no chance of ever finding out.
‘Listen mate, I know you were driving. We’ve got you on CCTV.’
They didn’t, but Nahim didn’t know that.
‘Yes, yes. I’m sorry, but I was only driving the van. I did not do anything to the body in the back. I did not kill him.’
‘Maybe I believe you, maybe I don’t. Who was with you?’
‘Two men with guns. They said they were Turkish terrorists. They threatened me.’
‘Turkish terrorists? You sure?’
‘Yes, they told me.’
‘Which organisation?’
‘They said they were members of the TFF. I do not know what that is.’
‘What sort of guns were they carrying?’
‘I do not know. I am a simple man, I know nothing about guns.’
‘Were they small like this one,’ Matt said, tapping the side of Nahim’s head with the barrel of his Glock, ‘or larger, like a rifle?’
‘They were larger, like a rifle.’
‘Was there wood on the stock?’
‘What?’
‘Was there wood at the back of the rifle, where it rests against the shoulder?’
‘Yes, I saw wood.’
This was a worrying development. In a densely-packed country like the UK, the end result of carrying a lethal weapon such as an AK47 would be catastrophic. A single bullet from one of those weapons could rip through several human bodies at a time, through the plasterboard walls of houses, or through a car windscreen and out the rear window.
If true, Nahim’s revelation told him a lot about the murder of David Burke. The TFF were responsible for holding him, killing him, and dumping his body in Epping Forest. It also suggested they were well-armed, which he had suspected already. What it didn’t tell him was what they intended to do with the information they had extracted from their captive.
Matt dumped Nahim face down on the deck and applied plastic cuffs. Anyone with decent core strength could raise themselves upright without using their hands, but not this guy. He looked as though he liked too many curries and washed them down with beer. He could roll around all he wanted, but he wasn’t running off anywhere.
Matt backed away, pulled out his phone and called Rosie.
‘Hi Matt, how are you feeling?’
‘A lot better now I know who killed David and drove his body to Epping.’
‘How do you know this?’
Matt explained about the van and the young lad near the crime scene who had noted down its licence number. He went on to tell her about the garage in Stockwell.
‘I’ll find out later how you managed to meet the driver down an alleyway in Stepney, but he said it was the TFF?’
‘According to him, he was no more than a hired hand, trying to make money to pay off his gambling debts.’
‘Where have we heard this before? So, he’s not a member of the TFF?’
‘He says not. A paid driver.’
‘Do you believe him?’
‘He could well be Turkish, but he doesn’t look like a killer, despite pulling a knife on me.’
‘No injuries, I trust?’
‘Only on him.’
‘So, the TFF hired this guy to dump a body? Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’
‘Yep. He’s got a rep for this kind of work. Send a team down to take him into custody. I think he’s got more to tell us about than just David Burke’s murder.’
‘Will do. What do we do ab
out the TFF? I’m just thinking out loud here, Matt, so whatever we discuss now doesn’t give you carte blanche to go off and do your own thing.’
‘Understood. I would close them down right now, but we might receive some heat from Five if we do.’
‘Is there something we can do that won’t annoy them as much?’
‘I think the crew who dumped the body in Epping are different from the people Steph’s been watching. She would have noticed if her targets had disappeared or a white van had suddenly appeared on the scene, but I’ll call and ask her just in case. So, what I would do now if I was making the decision, is go looking for this other lot.’
‘How would you do that? We don’t have any leads to chase.’
‘If I remember right, and I’ll ask Amos to check, there are a number of Turkish communities in various parts of London; off the top of my head, the likes of Stoke Newington and Dalston. Once we know for sure, I’ll go there and ask around, see if the TFF have been fundraising or flexing their muscles. In order to talk to any of them, I might need a Turkish speaker to accompany me.’
‘If I can get the okay from Gill for this stage of the operation, I’ll ask Steph if she can spare Jamil from the surveillance house. Leave it with me and I’ll get something arranged.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Matt, I’m coming with you.’
‘No way, Rosie, it’s too dangerous. We’re chasing a terrorist group that Ash here says are armed with AK47s. It’s better if only one of us is put in the firing line.’
‘Sometimes I think you’ve got a death wish.’
‘Maybe, but no way would I want to lose it hunting this lot of terrorists.’
‘When do you need your Turkish speaker?’
‘As soon as.’
‘I thought you might say that. I’ll see what I can do. Catch you later.’
TWENTY-SEVEN
Matt and Jamil Demir walked along Stoke Newington High Street. The plan was simple: they would walk around the area, talk to a few of the shopkeepers and the lads hanging out on street corners and find out if any of them knew anything about the TFF.
Luckily, the weather today was warm, one of those calm September Saturdays without the dampening effects of a cooling breeze. In response, sections of the long street were buzzing with activity: retailers with wares spilling on to the street in front of their shops; people standing chatting, others sitting outside at tables and chairs drinking coffee, some with the thick, sweet coffee beloved of Turks.
Jamil wasn’t new to this type of work. Before joining HSA, he’d worked for the counter-terrorism command within the Met. At one stage, he’d gone undercover and infiltrated a gang of Syrian terrorists in another part of London. In a dangerous operation, anti-terrorist officers stormed the terrorists’ headquarters where Jamil was located. They hadn’t told him the date of the raid for fear of him giving it away, and he was as shocked as the Syrians when a heavily armed group of men burst in throwing canisters of CS gas. All the terrorists captured were now in jail.
Jamil told Matt the best way to extract any information from the locals was in one of the traditional coffee houses. While he went off in search of one, Matt went for a haircut. Examining the price list while he waited, he decided also to have a hot towel Turkish wet shave. Not only was his hair untidy, he hadn’t shaved for several days.
If he thought he might pick up some titbits while waiting for his turn, he was wrong. The Turkish lads already having their hair done, were speaking to their barber in their own language. They might have been discussing something serious such as politics, as their faces took on severe expressions and the volume level rose, but equally, they might have been talking about football. He knew they also took this subject very seriously, as any fan who had ventured into Galatasaray’s stadium in Istanbul would testify.
Ten minutes later, Matt’s turn came. He’d been to a Turkish barber before, one close to his old flat in Ealing, and this one was no different. The Turkish wet shave however, was a delight, as it was a job he hated doing.
He had tried electric shaving and wet, and at one time owned an electric razor which was a cross between the two; it worked best when his face was wet. Problem was, within a day, his beard became a thick mass and shaving required a great deal of concentration, otherwise it was easy to nick himself with the razor. Some mornings, it was hard enough opening his eyes and getting his brain to work, never mind focus on running a razor-sharp implement over his throat.
Once seated, they chatted about football, a common conversation thread among men the world over. Here in Stoke Newington, Arsenal’s Emirates Stadium was a short bus ride away, but for reasons best known to himself, his barber was a Tottenham Hotspur fan. It didn’t take long, however, for him to confide his true allegiance was to Trabzonspor, a team from Trabzon, a city on the Black Sea coast of north-east Turkey.
‘Do many Turkish people still want to come to the UK?’ Matt asked, after his barber had told him he was third generation. His grandparents had arrived after the war, in the company of many others from their country.
‘Some still do, but once they are allowed into Europe, they can go to Germany where many more Turkish people are living. Austria and Italy are good too.’
‘Talking of the EU, what do you make of the Turkish prime minister’s attempts at variously blackmailing, or otherwise sweet-talking the EU into letting Turkey join the club? Do you think he’ll succeed?’
‘He’s an idiot!’ he exclaimed, his scissors momentarily suspended motionless in mid-air, as if pausing a YouTube video.
‘How do you mean?’
‘We are not western people like you, no offence mate.’
‘None taken.’
‘We are an eastern people with eastern traditions, customs, language, and religion. Inside the EU, we would be like ducks out of water, all our policies dictated to us by Germany and France. It would not be acceptable.’
The scissors continued their snipping, Matt’s dark hair littering the apron covering his clothes and the floor around the chair. He didn’t often like having his hair cut, as he found making small-talk with a stranger a bit of an effort. That said, he was enjoying this.
‘How can you stop him?’ Matt asked, thinking he had struck a rich seam. ‘He’s coming here to the UK next month, I think, to demand Turkey’s entry into Europe. This time, some people think he might succeed.’
‘If he can’t be stopped by argument, someone needs to do it by force!’ he said with feeling. A new look came over his face in the mirror. ‘Ach, what am I saying? My father calls me a hothead when it comes to politics. I get all agitated and bothered and start talking rubbish. It’s the prerogative of the young, he says. He was a revolutionary when he was my age, resisting the rule of the generals.’
For the next few minutes, Matt received a mini lesson in modern Turkish history from the barber, and heard how his father raised money to send to resistance forces back home, but he got little else out of him in the remaining time. Shame, as he would have liked to ask him if he agreed with the aims of groups like the TFF who wanted to stop the Turkish PM by force. However, Matt suspected any more questions would feel like the actions of an investigative journalist or a member of the security forces looking for terrorists, and not the casual enquiries of an interested customer.
The snipping finished, Matt got up from the chair and wiped the annoying little bits of hair from his neck. He paid and gave the man a tip. The barber sounded appreciative, but the smile offered didn’t reflect in his eyes.
Matt walked outside, the light breeze ruffling his exposed ears and sending a shiver through him. In Matt’s world, there wasn’t a place for long hair, except when working undercover. In hand-to-hand combat, it gave an opponent an excellent place to attain a sound grip to deliver a knee in the face, or a knife in the gut. It was for this reason armies around the world insisted on new recruits being immediately shorn of their civilian hairstyles and ordered to keep it that way.
Walki
ng along the road, Matt pulled out his phone and texted Demir. He met him a few minutes later.
‘Some people were talking about the TFF and how they try to recruit new members to their cause. I sense a lot of mistrust in the Turkish prime minister’s plan.’
‘They’ve been recruiting here, in Stoke Newington?’
‘Yes, they regularly come into the coffee house where I was, looking for recruits and shaking their tins of money, looking for donations.’
‘Result!’ Matt said, punching a fist into his palm. ‘There must be a TFF unit based around here.’
‘It could be they’ve come from somewhere else, but are trying to recruit from this area. Hackney’s not so far.’
‘I’m not so sure. Would local people listen to them, or contribute to their cause if they didn’t recognise them?’
He shrugged. ‘I suppose you’re right, they’re distrustful of strangers, even those from the homeland.’
Using the Map app on Matt’s phone, they headed for the Whole Foods Market, an enclosed space with a variety of vendors offering traditionally-made foods and produce. Here, they hoped to meet people with a different take on Turkey’s attempts to join the EU, as some stallholders were no doubt importing goods straight from their homeland.
They turned into Church Street when a van pulled up beside them. Three big lads with dark hair and beards came bounding out with a sense of purpose in their manner and serious expressions on their faces, as if looking for someone. To Matt’s surprise, they headed straight for him and Demir.
He tried to draw his weapon, but a fist came barrelling towards him. He sidestepped, but still caught a part of it on the side of his face. He returned the favour with a punch into his opponent’s gut, making him double over. Before Matt could finish him off, someone whacked him on the head, leaving him dazed and confused. Arms grappled with his, dragging him towards the side doors of the van.
Matt was pulled inside the van, but his legs were still free and he managed to kick the guy holding Demir. The former Counter Terrorism officer didn’t need telling twice. Once he was free, he set off at a pace that wouldn’t shame Usain Bolt. None of the men from the van went after him.