Murder Without Reason (DCI Cook Thriller Series Book 5)

by Phillip Strang

  ***

  ‘Your appeal is in progress. You should come up before a judge in about three weeks,’ DCI Isaac Cook informed a grateful Mohammad Sohail Shafi.

  ‘Will I be free then?’ Shafi asked.

  ‘Not totally. You’ll be released on bail, pending a retrial. It’s a done deal.’

  ‘You want something in return?’

  ‘We need you to work for us,’ Isaac replied.

  ‘Not undercover?’ Shafi said with some alarm. ‘These guys are dangerous. It’s on the prison grapevine that Gilligan was shot.’

  ‘I don’t know how your grapevine works,’ Isaac Cook replied, ‘but it’s certainly more accurate than the major newspapers of this country. They’re not reporting it.’

  ‘One of the screws heard it from Gilligan’s missus. It leaked out from there.’

  ‘She was meant to keep it confidential, but I suppose a distraught wife is not the ideal person to keep a secret,’ Isaac said.

  ‘Who killed him?’

  ‘I’d take a guess, the guy on the end of your phone.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I thought. He’ll be after me next.’

  ‘He’s not after you. You’d be dead by now if that were the case.’ Isaac felt sure that Wali Hasan’s murderer was secure as long as he was in prison. Outside may well present a different situation.

  ‘In Belmarsh, no way, I can look out for myself.’

  ‘Twenty-four hours a day. What are you going to do, give up sleep?’ Isaac felt that Shafi was bragging.

  ‘You’re right, and there are enough guns in here, knives as well.’

  ‘And there’s always the nylon cord in the gym, isn’t there?’ Isaac could not resist the opportunity to remind him that he knew the truth.

  ‘Don’t try and pin that wrap on me. It was Gilligan, has to be,’ Shafi responded immediately with the inevitable denial.

  ‘Shafi, we all know the truth. You play ball with us; we’ll play ball with you.’

  ‘What do you want?’ Shafi diverted the subject.

  ‘We want to put you with a couple of academics.’

  ‘Academics? Smart guys, you mean?’

  ‘They’re smart, real smart. Make you, and I look like children in a schoolyard.’ He had received the request from the head of Counter Terrorism Command to assist Frederick Vane and Andrew Martin, although he was not sure that it would achieve much.

  ‘What do they want with me?’ asked Shafi. ‘What can I tell them that they don’t know already?’

  ‘They want to know how your culture thinks, how it operates,’ Isaac Cook said.

  ‘What the hell do they want to know that for?’

  ‘You’re against the takeover of this country by the Islamic State?’

  ‘I hate them. I’m a good Muslim, maybe not such a good Englishman, but this is my country; I like it just the way it is now. I’ve got no issues with Jews, or Christians. They mind their business, I mind mine.’

  ‘The academics are our last hope of bringing down the Islamic State. Will you work with them?’ Isaac Cook asked.

  ‘If it gets me out of here, then yes. But how a couple of smart guys hope to solve this problem is beyond me.’

  ‘It’s beyond me as well, but our leaders believe there’s a possibility. There are not many other options available now.’

  ‘It’s guns that will fix them, not talk.’

  ‘Until there’s a clear signal to move, I’m tied to the rule book, same as everyone else,’ Isaac said.

  ‘They don’t read any rule book,’ said Shafi. ‘They just do what they want and say it is the will of Allah.’

  ‘Does your phone still ring?’ Ed Pickles asked. He had left the discussions up to his boss until now.

  ‘Not often, but there’s still some smuggling. I help out where I can. You’re not going to tell Governor Sheldon?’

  ‘No way. We’re after bigger fish than catching a few hundred cigarettes and some drugs being smuggled in.’

  ‘Are you getting me out of here?’ Shafi directed his gaze back to Isaac.

  ‘Not before the appeal, although there will be a few days out before then. We’ll make sure you have a broken foot, something similar.’

  ‘Aren’t you worried that I’ll do a runner?’

  ‘You’ll not run,’ said Ed. ‘You’re smarter than you let on. If we can get you out for a few days, get your sentence reduced, then we can also do the reverse.’

  ‘But I don’t deserve a manslaughter sentence. It was an accident.’

  ‘Accident, I believe you there,’ Isaac Cook said. ‘But accident or murder means little to us. You help us, we’ll help you. You’ll not run. Manslaughter, good behaviour, you could be out in under five.’

  ‘It looks as if we’re bound to each other. It’s like a marriage,’ Shafi said.

  ‘Perish the thought. You’re not my type,’ Isaac replied.

  ***

  The first week of sittings at Parliament since the bombings of the public houses, and Prime Minister’s question time in the House of Commons had a full attendance. The Opposition was vociferous in its desire to show to the people of the country that the Prime Minster was weak and indecisive.

  Ernest Bakewell, the Leader of the Opposition, led off. ‘Will the Right Honourable Prime Minister give us a clear answer as to what his government is doing about the continuing terror campaign in this country?’

  ‘Let me inform the Right Honourable Leader of the Opposition that this government is totally in control of the situation.’ The Prime Minister made the standard reply, strong on the statement, short on fact.

  ‘You are lying. You haven’t got a clue.’ Bakewell knew that, as the Leader of Her Majesty’s Opposition, he had overstepped parliamentary privilege by accusing the Prime Minister of a lie.

  ‘Will the Right Honourable Gentleman please retract those scurrilous remarks?’ the Speaker of the House demanded.

  ‘Mr Speaker, I retract,’ Ernest Bakewell acquiesced humbly.

  ‘Thank you,’ Mr Speaker Smyth said. ‘I ask the Prime Minister to continue with his statement.’ The Speaker, a political appointee of the Prime Minister after assisting in his hold on the leadership of the party when it was looking tenuous some years previously. He was by custom required to maintain control of the House of Commons in a bipartisan, neutral manner, although he knew it to be hard to be neutral when dealing with Ernest Bakewell.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Speaker.’ Clifford Bell was on his feet, unsure of what to say. He was feeling increasingly isolated at Number 10, and if there was a solution, he wasn’t sure what it was. To add to his problems, Anne Argento was snapping at his heels.

  ‘We, as a government, are united in our resolve to deal with the plague of bombings that are currently occurring throughout this country.’ It was another clichéd response from the Prime Minister.

  ‘Hear, hear.’ A unison chorus from the government backbench was heard.

  ‘We are firm in our resolve to halt this menace,’ the Prime Minister continued. I’m waffling, he thought. ‘The weight of the intelligence services, the military, and the police forces of this country are united and working at maximum capacity to find those responsible. We will then deal with them effectively and with the full measure of the law of this land.’

  ‘You’re talking rubbish!’ Ernest Bakewell, quick to his feet, shouted. ‘We want facts. What is happening? What are you doing?’

  The Speaker of the House interjected. ‘The Right Honourable Leader of the Opposition is out of order. The Prime Minister has the floor.’

  ‘Mr Speaker, I apologise,’ Bakewell acquiesced again, but not without adding further comment. ‘We hear this, week in week out, from the Right Honourable Prime Minister and we receive no details. They have no plan, no idea. They are bereft of a solution, and yet we continue to be held hostage to a group of people who place no value on the lives of the people of this country.’

  ‘The Right Honourable Leader of the Opposition is out of order,’
cried the Speaker. ‘One further outburst and I will be forced to have him ejected from this Parliament.’

  ‘I apologise, Mr Speaker.’ Ernest Bakewell knew how far he could push the Speaker.

  ‘The Right Honourable Prime Minister may continue.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Speaker,’ said the Prime Minister. ‘As I was saying, we do have plans in place, but they must remain secret. In a delicate matter, such as this, it is important not to reveal operational details. I’m sure the Right Honourable Member on the other side of the chamber would understand that.’ He felt that he had scored a political point; he had not.

  ‘Resign, Resign,’ a unison chorus of opposition backbenchers rallied at the sleight on their leader’s credibility.

  The Prime Minister continued. ‘I will make those plans available at an appropriate time, subject to advice from those entrusted with their implementation. It is also evident that, in the last week, there has been a significant reduction in terrorist-related activities. This must be a clear indication that our law services are winning back the lost ground.’

  ‘It’s Ramadan, you fool,’ the opposition Member for Newcastle shouted.

  ‘The Honourable Member will retract that statement.’ The Speaker was quick to respond.

  ‘Mr Speaker, I will not,’ the opposition Member replied. ‘The Prime Minister is out of touch with reality. I’ve only spoken the truth.’

  ‘You will retract, or I will have you ejected from this chamber.’

  ‘Mr Speaker, if the Member for Newcastle is removed, then the Opposition benches will retire from this chamber as well.’ Ernest Bakewell entered the fray.

  ‘I hold the chair here,’ the Speaker said. ‘I am not here to be given instructions by you or anyone else in this chamber. I have no option but to eject the Member for Newcastle.’

  ‘Shame, shame,’ cried the Opposition in unison as it filed out of the chamber.

  ‘Hear, hear.’ A unison chorus from the government benches was heard in support of the speaker.

  Anne Argento sat quietly and smiled to herself.

  ***

  ‘Counter Terrorism Command has secured someone for you,’ the Director of the Office of National Statistics announced proudly on his daily visit.

  ‘How did you find someone?’ Frederick asked.

  ‘Top priority. The Commander of the Counter Terrorism Command has found someone suitable – very suitable, in fact.

  ‘Why is he so suitable?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘It seems he does a little bit of smuggling for the bad guys.’

  ‘He’s one of them?’

  ‘He can’t stand them or at least that is what I’ve been told.’

  ‘When can we see him? What time can he be in the office?’ Frederick asked.

  ‘There’s one minor difficulty.’ The Director said.

  ‘Yes, what is it?’ Frederick asked.

  ‘He’s in prison.’

  ‘Why’s that a difficulty?’

  ‘It’s Belmarsh.’

  ‘The place they lock up the hardened criminals?’ Andrew asked. ‘The never to be let out? The terrorists? That Belmarsh?’

  ‘Yes, he’s in there for murder.’

  ‘What kind of person is he? Who did he murder?’ Frederick asked.

  ‘A gypsy, over some heroin. He claims it was an accident. May well be.’

  ‘It may well be? What does that mean?’ Andrew queried.

  ‘According to the Counter Terrorism Command officer that I met, dark chap, decent sort, though, the evidence is largely circumstantial. The police saw the knife enter the gypsy, and as it was a gypsy and a Pakistani and heroin, they just put together a flimsy case, and now the Pakistani is doing fifteen years.’

  ‘So, he may not have committed the murder?’ Frederick asked.

  ‘That’s possible, but there are others, unproven. As long as he tows the line with us, they’ll be overlooked.’

  ‘We’re willing to let a murderer off free?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘Apparently, if he helps us here and with some other requirements the police have.’

  ‘Condoning murder. I’m not sure I’m comfortable with that,’ Andrew said.

  ‘Comfortable or not, I’m told he’s the best they’ve got. They reckon he’s the best bet for getting into the mind of the terrorists without actually having a terrorist, and you said we needed to look at different solutions, look out of the box.’

  ‘True, but a murderer, that’s a little more severe than we expected,’ Andrew said.

  ‘When can we see him?’ Frederick asked.

  ‘Tomorrow morning. He’s in the hospital for a couple of days, an apparent case of appendicitis.’

  ‘He won’t be up to talking to us then.’

  ‘He’ll be okay. Good hospital food instead of the muck he probably gets served down at the prison. As well as a few nurses, a private room with a television. He’ll be chatty enough.’

  ‘And the appendicitis? Will they operate?’ Frederick asked.

  ‘Why? It’s a ruse to get him somewhere so that you two can spend as long as you want to pick his brain. I’m told if you get past the murdering, the drug dealing, the buggering of young boys and the rough language, he’s not a bad person, and reasonably intelligent.’

  ‘That’s all we have to get past? I thought you were about to say he was cruel to animals, something really serious,’ Andrew offered up some humour.

  ‘That’s the way. Keep a sense of humour, and we’ll get there.’ The director exited as quickly as he had entered.

  ***

  HMS Ambush, Astute Class, nuclear powered, was the largest attack submarine the Royal Navy had commissioned. Sub Lieutenant Ray Styles, in time to be one of its finest new officers, Her Majesty’s Naval Base, Clyde, its operational base.

  It had been a plan long in the making, well over a year and well before Durrani, the master bomb maker had arrived in the United Kingdom. His role had been that of a consultant, and distant as he was then as he was now, his inimitable fingerprints would be evident in the result.

  Ray Styles, a fine upstanding man of twenty-four, was a Navy man, as was his father and his father before him. Originally from a comfortable land-holding down in Devon close to the naval base at Devonport, his father had seen it as an ideal location for his wife, Mavis and the children, Ray, the eldest and Monique, the younger by two years. Len Styles was based out of Devonport and, as the Captain on HMS Triumph, Trafalgar-class, another nuclear-powered submarine, a house nearby seemed the place to be, considering his pending retirement at the relatively early age of fifty. There were a few years to go, but with the allowances that a submariner received and a generous pay-off at his decommissioning, he should be able to afford a few horses, some cattle and, that coupled with his wife’s handicraft shop, it would be enough to ensure a good and comfortable life. He was also anxious to engender a love of the sea in his son, Ray.

  Len’s choice of Devonport over the outer suburbs of Manchester, where they had previously lived, had proved to be a good decision. At the age of eighteen, Ray, by then tall for his age, physically fit and possessing more than the one hundred and eighty points of the Universities and Colleges Admissions Service requirements, was provisionally accepted for officer training at the Royal Navy College, Dartmouth. It was still subject to passing an Admiralty Interview Board and some aptitude and physical fitness tests.

  The fitness tests were no problem as weekend hikes and runs up on Dartmoor, an expansive area of moorland, had toughened him up in preparation. The aptitude tests presented no problems, and a family history of service to their country by the Styles family counted for a lot.

  ‘Mr Styles,’ Commodore Simon Clare asked at the Admiralty Interview. ‘What is it that interests you in the Royal Navy?’ Simon Clare was a foreboding man. A veteran of the Falklands war, he had been on the bridge of HMS Broadsword, a Type 22 frigate, when it had been hit by cannon fire.

  ‘Submarines, I’m interested in submarines,’ Ray Sty
les answered.

  ‘And why’s that?’ the Commodore asked.

  ‘It’s a family tradition, Sir. My father is on the Triumph.’

  It was two weeks later when he received his letter of acceptance. His father was delighted. Dartmouth was only forty kilometres from home.

  ‘You’ll be able to come home at weekends,’ his mother said.

  ‘Yes, Mum, sure. Every weekend, I promise.’ Ray Styles had wild oats to sow and the weekends were for sowing, but his mother was happy when he promised to pay regular visits.

  Chapter 8

  Anne Argento had revelled in the excruciating performance of the Prime Minister in the Houses of Parliament. She could have helped him if she had wanted, but she did not. Give a man enough rope, and he’ll hang himself, she thought. She would even have supplied the rope. Her desire for his job was not the only reason for seeking his demise. She was, for all her faults, a patriotic Englishwoman. She knew that Europe was heading to war. England was under attack from within, and it was apparent that neither the Prime Minister and the majority of the cabinet, nor the political leaders in continental Europe, understood that basic fact. The situation required a leader, and there were none apparent. The responsibility fell to her, and she knew she was ready, even desperate for the task.

  The English history books stated that the last battle fought on British soil was in 1745, the Clifton Moor Skirmish when the British Hanoverian government came up against the Jacobite rebels. She knew they were wrong. The last battle was the last terrorist attack and, up until now, the British were not defending their positions, taking forward the counter attack. In fact, to Anne Argento, they were doing nothing. It was war, and the country needed a wartime leader, and she was that leader. She was a woman of infinite belief in herself.

  ‘He’s got to go.’ Anne Argento was involved in some behind the scenes lobbying.

  ‘I’m not so sure.’ Angie Butler, an up and coming backbencher with political aspirations of high office, was not a supporter of Argento. ‘Too abrasive, too pushy for my liking,’ she would confide to her father, the Honourable Lord Sussex, back home at the ancestral estate.