‘If you had studied more at school, taken your science lessons seriously, you’d realise that those smart-arse scientists can find out a lot from what you and I can’t see.’
‘Detective Inspector Pickles is right,’ Isaac Cook said. ‘And your DNA, which they found in sperm around the backside of Wali Hasan’s anus, is admissible in court. They’ll convict you of the murder, that’s for sure. It’ll make no difference if the gypsy was an accident, they’ll still get you for Wali Hasan.’
‘Admissible, something that can’t be seen? I don’t believe you!’ Shafi shouted.
‘I can show you written proof that they will.’ Isaac felt that Shafi was weakening.
‘We know you raped him,’ Isaac maintained the pressure. ‘So that makes you the murderer as well.’
‘Okay, okay, I fucked him, but it wasn’t rape,’ Shafi admitted. ‘He was lonely, glad of some attention.’
‘He wasn’t that way inclined,’ the black policeman countered the less than confident Pakistani’s statement. ‘I threatened to throw him naked into the main prison, and he freaked out.’
‘I know what this is. It’s the good guy/bad guy routine. You’re pretending to be good.’ Shafi pointed at Isaac Cook. ‘And you,’ he said, pointing at Ed Pickles, ‘the bad guy. Well, you’re both bad. You’re trying to twist me around to admitting to the murder of the kid.’
‘No we’re not, but what other conclusion is there?’ said DCI Cook. ‘We know it’s rape, and we would go into a court of law and swear to it. And, unless we get proof to the contrary, you’re the murderer. It’s as simple as that.’
‘Okay, he put up a fight, but you don’t know what it’s like in here. I’m no worse than any of the others. Any of the inmates would have raped him. It’s just that I was first.’
‘And after you had raped him, you took a nylon cord from the gym and put it round his neck and twisted,’ Ed Pickles said. Barbara Sykes and her team had conclusive proof of the murder weapon.
‘Okay, pin the rape on me,’ shouted Shafi. ‘I’ve got another thirteen years to go in here, another two for bad behaviour won’t make any difference. But I’m not going to be stitched up with his murder as well.’
‘How did you know the gate to the detention cell would be open?’ Ed Pickles asked.
‘I received a phone call.’
‘Phone? I thought they were restricted?’ Isaac Cook said.
‘Don’t act stupid with me,’ Shafi replied contemptuously. ‘You know this place is awash with mobile phones, contraband. Even weapons, if you look long enough.’
‘Do the prison officers know this?’ Ed Pickles asked.
‘They should – most of them are in on the smuggling.’
‘And you. Why the phone call to go and rape a detainee?’ Isaac Cook asked.
‘A favour returned. What else?’
‘Favour for what?’
‘Sometimes I help out with the smuggling,’ said Shafi. ‘Letters mainly, the occasional cheese, ham, maybe a birthday cake.’
‘We can check, but if it’s drugs we’ll be forced to inform the authorities. That’s another ten years,’ Isaac Cook said.
‘What do you want from me? I didn’t murder him. I’m not going to take the wrap for it.’
‘Whether you did or not is not our greatest concern,’ Ed Pickles said. ‘What we want is the person who phoned you. Are you a supporter of the Islamic State?’
‘Those deluded fools? Not a chance! Live and let live, that’s my motto. They can have their Islamic State, as long as I’ve got London – or at least the London on the other side of these four walls. Protecting us from the community, that’s what your prison service says. There’s more crime going on in here than there is outside, and the worst offenders are those who are meant to be on the side of law and order.’
‘It’s an imperfect world,’ said Isaac Cook. ‘You help us, and we’ll help you, maybe get you a transfer somewhere else, a review of your conviction.’
‘Can you do that?’
‘We’re from the Counter Terrorism Command. You’d be surprised what we can do. We can have you slammed in solitary for the rest of your natural. We could even get you out of this rat hole tomorrow. It depends on what you do for us.’
‘Who made the phone call?’ Ed Pickles asked.
‘The honest truth is I don’t know. I would swear on the life of my mother, and yes, she is well and fit in Pakistan.’
‘You receive a phone call, yet you don’t know who it is. Are you expecting us to believe you?’ Ed Pickles asked again.
‘It’s the truth. He made contact with me when I first came in here, made sure I had a smuggled phone. One of the guards gave it to me.’
‘Which guard was that?’ Isaac Cook asked.
‘Gilligan, it was him.’
‘Unfortunately, he’s no longer around to ask.’
‘Did he open the gate?’ Shafi asked innocently.
‘It looks probable. What do you know about him?’
‘Not a lot. He seemed decent enough for a screw – sorry, prison officer.’
‘Don’t worry, we know what a screw is,’ Isaac Cook said. ‘Was he involved in the smuggling?’
‘Him and a few others, that’s for sure. Find him, he’ll tell you that he gave me the phone. Maybe he killed Wali Hasan.’
‘We’ll ask him when we find him.’
‘When will that be? Soon?’ Shafi asked.
‘Sooner or later, we always get our man,’ said Ed Pickles. ‘We’re like the Canadian Mounties, never give up until we get a result.’
‘Canadian Mounties?’ That must be a copper’s joke. It’s lost on me.’
‘Your mysterious benefactor, what number does he phone from? Is there a number shown on your phone?’ Ed Pickles asked.
‘It changes. I’ve not taken any notice, as long as he looks after me, cigarettes mainly – they’re always good currency in here. If he sends the occasional money to my mother then I’m happy to do what he wants, no questions asked.’
‘And he supplies the drugs that you sell in the prison for some extra cash?’ Isaac Cook asked.
‘Drugs? Don’t try and pin that wrap on me. I’m clean in here.’
‘Apart from your dick, after shoving it up the arse of some young kid in the showers,’ Ed Pickles said.
‘Most of them are fags anyway,’ said Shafi. ‘They enjoy it.’
‘We’re not here to discuss your love life, depraved as it is,’ said Ed Pickles. ‘We still want the person at the end of the phone. We’ll need your phone records. Just give us the phone, or at least the phone numbers of the calls that you’ve received and we can do the checking from our end. Is that okay?’
‘That’s fine, as long as you don’t let on to the Prison Governor.’
‘You work with us; we’ll work with you,’ Isaac Cook agreed.
‘What did he sound like?’ Ed Pickles asked.
‘Who?’ Shafi said.
‘Don’t be obtuse. The voice, who else?’
‘Educated. He spoke a clear Pashto, no bad language. One of the better schools in Pakistan and then an education here in England. I’m no expert, though. My Pashto is as rough as my English.’
‘Would you recognise his voice again, on a playback for instance?’ Isaac Cook asked.
‘Yes, I’m sure I would.’
‘I’ll tell you what we’ll do.’ Isaac Cook had an idea. ‘If we get you out of here, you’ll work for us undercover. If you play fair, we’ll ensure that, at the end of our current investigations, you’ll be returned to prison, but in a cushy prison farm down in the country, plenty of fresh air, and a five-year confirmed sentence with time off for good behaviour. How does that sound?’
‘Can I trust you?’ Shafi asked.
‘You can trust us,’ said Isaac Cook. ‘We’re turning a blind eye to the murder you committed here. That should be enough proof.’
‘I didn’t murder anyone.’
‘Yes, so you said,’ Ed Pickles
said. ‘Wait here for us and we will return.’
‘When will that be?’ Shafi asked.
‘We can’t give you a timescale,’ said Isaac Cook. ‘Maybe two weeks, a maximum of four. But wait and we will return.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m not planning any trips for the next few weeks.’
***
Governor Sheldon had asked for a debriefing before they left the prison. Seated in comfortable chairs in the Governor’s office drinking Earl Grey tea, it was hard to believe that they were in the middle of one of the most secure prisons in the country, housing some of the most violent criminals that England had the misfortune to be responsible for.
‘Call me Harry,’ Governor Sheldon said.
‘Ed, Isaac.’ Pickles felt obliged to respond, but an old-fashioned cop did not get overly familiar with his colleagues or his criminals.
‘Did he kill the young man?’ Sheldon asked.
‘No, he did not,’ Isaac said. ‘He raped him, but that’s confidential. No action is to be taken against him. I’ll give you a covering letter to that effect. Is that okay with you?’
‘If it’s on the letterhead of Counter Terrorism Command and duly signed.’
‘No action while we continue our investigations. Is that clear?’
‘It’s clear by me,’ said Sheldon. ‘I realise that you must get involved in some undercover, highly secretive work. It’s not for me to interfere or obstruct.’ The Governor was pleased that the murder in one of his cells was to be hushed up. An official inquiry would have held him responsible, ensured a demotion and a substantial reduction in his pension.
‘Who committed the murder?’ the Governor asked, curious to know.
‘We’re focusing on Seamus Gilligan, the missing prison officer,’ Isaac replied.
‘Can you find him?’
‘He can’t have gone far,’ Isaac said.
***
The Churchill Arms in Kensington was busy when they arrived for a meal and a few pints of beer. Ed Pickles would have the few pints; Isaac, two at most.
‘Isaac, what you told Governor Sheldon. How much of what you said did you believe?’ Ed asked.
‘Not a lot.’
‘So what’s your take on Mohammad Sohail Shafi? Rapist? Murderer?’
‘My view is the same as yours. He was contracted to murder Wali Hasan and took the opportunity for a rape at the same time.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ said Ed. ‘So why are we making a deal with a rapist and a murderer?’
‘Mohammad Sohail Shafi can recognise the voice on the phone, and we need the guy behind the voice as soon as possible. It looks as though he is an organiser, and it’s clear that these bombings around the country need someone smart to deal with the logistics. Maybe it’s him?’
‘So we make a deal with Shafi, get him out of prison and then send him back?’ Ed said.
‘Partially,’ said Isaac. ‘We make the deal, get him out, find this mysterious voice at the end of a phone line and then send Shafi undercover. Do you see any problems?’
‘It sounds fine to me. It’s hardly out of the modern book of police regulations, though.’
‘Stuff them,’ Isaac said. ‘We’re dealing with some nasty individuals here, and they don’t follow regulations or read any books. We need to stop them before they bring this country to its knees.’
‘Spoken like a future Commissioner of the London Metropolitan Police.’
‘Very funny,’ said Isaac. ‘If we stuff this up, I’ll be back on the beat with a tall helmet in double-quick time.’ He looked at Ed and grinned.
‘We’ll not stuff up. We can’t afford to.’
‘No qualms with letting a murderer out on the streets?’ Isaac asked.
‘None at all. We do what we must. Besides, he’ll not let us down. He knows that, if we can get him out, we can certainly put him back with an instruction, solitary, never to be released.’
‘Seamus Gilligan, what do we do about him?’ Isaac asked.
‘We have to find him and double quick. Shafi’s safe because he’s locked up, but Gilligan has probably received phone calls as well. He may have some idea as to who he is. He’s a dead man walking unless we grab him soon.’
‘That’s certain,’ Isaac agreed. ‘He’s our priority now.’
Chapter 4
Durrani, the master bomb maker, wrestled with a problem for which he could see no solution. It was one thing to equip a suicide bomber, fit out a car with a concealed bomb, but his greatest challenge, the one that Faisal Aslam said would be his greatest achievement, gave him concern. The bomb needed to be small, it needed to be focussed, and it needed to be foolproof. He had to ensure the death of one eminent person within a group of eminent persons, and none of them was to be killed, not even harmed. Indiscriminate killing of people in a public place was second nature to him, but controlled, tight explosions had not been asked before. Faisal Aslam was specific in his requirements.
Events in the Middle East continued to ebb and flow, mostly flow, and the move of the Islamic State into Europe continued to move forward. Durrani had been there in the early days as they moved up through Iraq and Syria. He well remembered the beheadings and the beautiful tribal girls in the Kurdish region. The girls still excited him but, with the top of his penis having been taken off by a misfiring igniter, there was little that he could do. The joy of a peasant girl pleading for her life, her virginity, was behind him now. Still, it had its compensations. Never would he hurry the construction of a bomb for the sake of pleasuring himself with some frightened female, and he had to admit that his skills had improved immeasurably. The bombs in those days were crude compared to the elegant solutions he was capable of now.
‘I need another dozen suicide vests. When can you let me have them?’ Faisal Aslam asked, disturbing the concentration of Durrani. One slip and he could easily have blown himself up.
‘I have told you many times. Do not walk up behind me and start talking,’ Durrani responded with anger.
‘This is my house. You are here as my guest,’ replied Faisal Aslam. He was not used to an employee showing him such a lack of respect. ‘It is my right to go where I want, talk when I want.’
‘I can understand that,’ Durrani replied almost apologetically. ‘But if I had touched the red wire to that blue wire as you walked in, then both of us would be holding our conversation somewhere else, certainly not in this mortal world.’
‘Durrani, you are right. I apologise. I continue to forget the nature of your work.’
‘Then your apology is accepted. The vests are ready, as are the backpacks. Do you have the martyrs ready?’
‘They are ready,’ said Faisal Aslam. ‘You will need you to instruct them.’
‘Donkeys? Or do they possess some brains?’ Durrani asked.
‘They’re better than donkeys, but not by much.’
‘Then let us hope that Allah bestows his pleasure on us and ensures they don’t blow us up or their families.’
‘It is all we can hope for. Allah will look after us,’ Faisal Aslam said.
***
‘You’re all being equipped with the best digital watches that money can buy,’ Durrani addressed his latest rabble of martyrs.
They were, as Faisal Aslam had said, a motley bunch ‒ some barely seemed able to comprehend that martyrdom would mean death to them.
‘How do we get out before the bomb goes off?’ asked Amr Yaseen, a spotty-faced individual with squinting eyes and a bad case of body odour.
‘Where do you come from?’ Durrani asked.
‘Manchester, I’ve lived there all my life,’ Yaseen replied, picking his spots.
‘That’s not what I meant. Where’s your family from?’ Durrani persisted.
‘My dad is from Leeds, and my mother was born in Liverpool.’ Amr Yaseen was indicative of the group assembled. A failure to take advantage of a free government education had left him with no redeemable worthwhile qualities, and the only idea that his lim
ited intellect could understand was that the Christian infidels in the country of his birth, England, were responsible for his inability to get a job, a woman, and a car.
‘Your heritage – Middle Eastern, Chinese, Red Indian? What are you?’ Durrani said irritably.
‘Don’t be crazy, mate. I’m Egyptian, proud of it.’
‘I only hope Egypt is as proud of you as you are of it.’
‘You can’t talk to me like that. You say that up in Manchester and me, and my mates would come and give you a good thumping, maybe a knife.’
‘You’ll show me the respect I deserve,’ Durrani angrily replied. ‘And if you don’t, I’ll have those two men outside the door come in here, pin you to the ground and take your balls off.’
‘Old man,’ Yaseen persisted. ‘I’m not frightened of you or those heavies out there. I can take care of myself.’
Angry at the insult and exasperated by the dummies he was expected to work with, Durrani called in the two heavies. Khalid and Mustafa were, indeed, heavy and made a reasonable if unusual living wrestling every Saturday night down in Wembley. One week, Khalid the Wild Arab would win, the next it would be Hairy Mustafa. However, as a tag team, they were invincible. Khalid was committed to the Islamic State, Mustafa was not so sure, but Faisal Aslam paid well, no questions asked and they happily accepted the money and turned a blind eye to some of the strange goings-on.
‘Khalid, Mustafa,’ Durrani said, ‘this young man thinks he’s smart. He tells me he’s not worried about you two and that he can take care of himself.’
‘I didn’t say that. You’re lying,’ Yaseen nervously replied.
‘I’ve told him for his insolence you would come in here and take his balls off.’ Khalid and Mustafa had gone through this routine in the past. They realised it was a clear attempt to snap some of the more ignorant and bad-mannered into shape.
‘I’ll get my knife.’ Khalid looked serious, but could see the humour. ‘I sharpened it up, especially for today. It’s got a nice curve. A good, clean cut and our man here won’t feel a thing.’ He turned to Mustafa. ‘Drop his trousers and hold him still on the parquet flooring. We don’t want to get the carpet over here bloodied.’
Murder Without Reason (DCI Cook Thriller Series Book 5) Page 4