Soapy received few visitors. His mother came occasionally, but his father never. He was either too ashamed or too disinterested. Soapy didn’t know and, besides, he didn’t care. He was quite content in Belmarsh. It was more a home to him than the home he had outside. He never wished to leave.
‘Altaf, how are you?’
‘I'm all right.’ Soapy was perplexed. The old man was pleasant looking, well into his seventies, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.
‘Aren’t you glad to see your old grandfather?’
‘Yes, Grandfather,’ Soapy said. ‘I didn’t recognise you. You look so young.’
‘It’s the new hip. I’m up and running all over the place – well, maybe not running, more a fast walk these days.’
‘How’s Gran?’
‘She’s good, sends her love. Bedridden nowadays, so I don’t think you’ll be seeing her anytime soon.’
‘What’s the news back home?’ Soapy asked.
‘Just the same, but it’s the news from here that I’m interested in. How’s Shafi?’ his newly discovered grandfather asked.
‘He’s not here, didn’t you know?’
‘No, he never told me. Strange, I thought he would have given me a call. Where’s he gone?’
‘He was released on appeal. The police who nobbled him were drunk,’ Soapy said.
‘That’s unusual. It typically takes months, sometimes years, for an appeal.’ The grandfather did know of Mohammad Sohail Shafi’s release. He was at the prison, pretending to be a relative in an attempt to find out if the appeal process had been legitimate or not.
‘I’ll tell you what was strange, though,’ Soapy said.
‘What’s that, Altaf?’
‘The appeal lawyers, they didn’t look right to me.’
‘Why do you say that?’ the grandfather asked.
‘They’re usually dressed in pinstripe suits or something dark. One of them had a light-coloured jacket and a tie half undone.’
‘That’s interesting. I’ll have to let the family know,’ Soapy’s grandfather said. ‘Did Shafi say anything about why he was so interested in the voice on the end of his phone?’ Soapy realised that the old man was the contact that the voice behind the surgical mask in the ambulance had mentioned.
‘I couldn’t find out much. It seems as though he was just curious.’
‘His getting out so quick is interesting. Either his appeal lawyers were something special, or he’s got some special friends,’ said Haji, the Master’s ally, and now Soapy’s grandfather.
‘What do you mean, Grandfather?’ Soapy was smarter enough to maintain the pretence, especially when a prison officer was standing not more than two metres away, craning his neck to listen in on the conversation.
‘Nothing really, just an old man daydreaming.’
‘It’s good to see you again, Grandfather. When will you visit again?’ Soapy asked.
‘I’ll try to pop in every couple of weeks.’
It was to be the first and last time that Soapy saw the grandfather he thought had died twenty years previous.
***
‘If Shafi’s out, we better find out where he is, what he’s up to,’ Faisal Aslam said. ‘Haji, you can also be a grandfather to Shafi. Is that alright with you?’
‘Master, it is my pleasure to serve. However, if he has picked up some newfound friends it may be better to watch him for a few weeks.’
‘As usual, your wisdom guides us. Can I leave it to you?’
‘I will let you know when I am certain,’ Haji said.
‘If he’s fine, then it is possible that we can use him,’ said Faisal Aslam.
‘You are always wise, Master. With your leadership, we will succeed. We will bring the beauty of Allah to these heathen people.’
‘It is only time now. All the plans are in place. The instrument of our deliverance is ready.’
‘And what about Altaf, the one they call Soapy?’
‘There is no place for homosexuals when we take over this country.’
‘We will leave him in prison?’
‘He will never leave Belmarsh,’ Faisal Aslam responded firmly. ‘Either he dies there of some queer’s disease, or we will rid our country of him and his kind on the day of our greatest triumph.’
***
Anne Argento was in a jubilant mood. The numbers in the party room and within the general community were looking good, the Prime Minister’s continued to haemorrhage. He could barely make a move, open his mouth, or step outside of Number 10 without somebody thrusting a microphone in his face for a comment.
His popularity rating was down to twenty percent in the random surveys conducted on the street that politicians always disregard unless they’re in their favour.
‘Mr Prime Minister, your comment on your historically low approval ratings?’ Mary Fairweather of the Daily Mail asked at his weekly meet-the-press at Number 10.
‘I only trust the poll on voting day.’ Clifford Bell was giving serious consideration to cancelling the meet-the-press every Wednesday. It was always the same: ‘When is Anne Argento going to be elevated to the senior ministry?’ ‘When are, you going to declare your position open?’ ‘What are you doing about the current situation?’ He had only continued on the advice of Rohan Jones, his Chief of Staff and Senior Adviser.
‘Prime Minister, you cancel the meetings and the press will hammer you.’
‘You expect me to stand up and take their verbiage?’ the Prime Minister fired back.
‘I expect you to stand there and dish it back to them. Show them some backbone.’
‘Rohan, one day you’ll overstep your mark with me.’
‘Prime Minister, I’m your adviser. It’s for me to say it as it is. Do you want a sycophant telling you what you want to hear or do you want the truth?’
‘The truth, obviously, but your truth is not pleasant.’ The Prime Minister had to concede to his adviser, but how to change the situation in the country? How to control the press? How to silence Anne Argento? He wasn’t sure.
‘But surely, Prime Minister,’ Mary Fairweather, one of the more voracious of the press hacks, continued, ‘you cannot ignore the fact that Anne Argento is outpolling you by two to one. It’s unprecedented. When will you allow the leadership to be contested?’
‘I have the full support of my party. If one minister feels the need for disloyalty, then you should ask her as to what her issues are.’
‘Prime Minister, with due respect,’ continued Mary Fairweather, ‘we all know what her issues are. She claims that you are not providing the leadership that this country needs. We’ve just lost a submarine, the bombings continue unabated, and yet it appears that you are doing nothing.’
‘You must realise,’ countered the PM, ‘that any discussions by me at this press conference are counterproductive while there are people in the background acting to solve the problem?’
‘Are you saying there is a plan?’ Mary Fairweather asked.
‘I am not saying any such thing. You are reporting what you want regardless of the truth. The media organisations of this country are acting in a manner contrary to the needs of this country. It is as if they are in league with the Islamic State.’
‘That is a wide-ranging comment. Would you like to back it up with some facts?’ Mary Fairweather was monopolising the press conference. She was entitled to one question. She intended to ask as many as she could get away with.
‘You must excuse me. There are some pressing matters for me to deal with.’ The Prime Minister took the opportunity to exit the room. There were questions, too many, and he did not have the answers.
‘Rohan, you’re my adviser. Advise me,’ Clifford Bell asked as soon as he reached the relative sanctity of his office in Number 10.
‘For one thing, don’t attack the press,’ Rohan Jones angrily admonished his Prime Minister.
‘But they are helping the Islamic State with reporting our failures and their successes.’
‘Whether they are o
r not is not the issue. Rule number one, never get the press offside. They’re going to hammer you tomorrow.’
‘What are we going to do about Anne Argento?’ the Prime Minister asked. ‘What’s your recommendation?’
‘Make her your deputy.’
‘Are you crazy? I had one bout with her in here the other week. I can’t face another one of her tantrums.’
‘You’ve no option. If she openly challenges you, you’d be pushed to hold the numbers. But if she’s here as your deputy…?’
‘She’ll need to keep her cool in public,’ the Prime Minister ended the sentence. ‘What about here, in this office?’
‘She’ll hammer you, but it gives you time to see what the Counter Terrorism Command can come up with. They’re your trump card. If they can find the network behind this, we still have the army, the SAS. They can go in and sort out the mess.’
‘They’ll need permission if they’re going to do what you’re saying.’
‘Is the solution too violent?’ Rohan Jones asked.
‘It is, and you know it.’ The Prime Minister, still a pacifist at heart, saw that he was being drawn inexorably to a decision that he did not feel capable of making.
‘Prime Minister, do you want this woman in your seat?’
‘No, that’s bloody obvious.’ The Prime Minister felt certain he would agree to any action deemed necessary.
‘Then you have no option. If Counter Terrorism Command come in here and say we’ve got a thousand people for immediate liquidation, you move your head up and down and let them get on with it.’
‘I’m not sure I would be able to do that.’
‘Prime Minister, either you do it, or Anne Argento will,’ said Rohan Jones firmly. ‘I can tell you as a friend, best man at your wedding even, that if you do not give the command, then I’ll march over to Anne Argento and give her your job on the spot.’
‘I’ll give the command when the time comes.’ The Prime Minister sighed. He had no option but to answer in the affirmative.
‘And what do I do about Anne Argento?’ his senior adviser asked.
‘Call in the new deputy if she’ll take the position.’
‘She will.’
‘You’re that sure?’ the Prime Minister said.
‘I’ve already sounded her out. She’ll come and wait until you shoot yourself in the foot and then jump straight in. You stand down, and it’s her without the formality of a party room ballot.’
‘She’ll still need the ballot in a few weeks if she wants my position.’
‘Make her your deputy and they’ll be no ballot. You know that. Once she’s in your chair, she’ll declare war on the Islamic State. No one will dare impose her in the cabinet or the backbench. She’ll have those dissenters declared traitors, throw them in the Tower.’
‘Literally? You don’t mean literally?’ the Prime Minister said, alarmed at the prospect.
‘Of course not,’ replied Rohan Jones, ‘but anyone who opposes her will be committing political suicide. What do you think the people of this country will do if she declares war?’
‘Those who don’t want the Islamic State will rally behind her.’
‘She’ll be the most popular person in the country. No one will dare challenge her, and you’ll be confined to the rubbish bin of history, the man who failed. That’s what they’ll call you. It’s up to you. Either you take control, or she does.’
‘Set up an appointment with our new deputy.’
‘I set it up yesterday. She’ll be here in thirty minutes.’
‘Rohan, you’ve screwed me.’
‘Prime Minister, I’ve saved you from your arrogance and your intransigence. One day you’ll thank me.’
‘It won’t be today.’
‘I know that, but a day is a long time in politics. It may be Anne Argento who shoots herself in the foot. Accepting to be your deputy may be the bullet being loaded into the chamber.’
‘I only hope you’re right.’
‘I am right.’
‘Rohan, get Commander Goddard and DCI Cook in here tomorrow morning. And, whatever you do, don’t let my new deputy know.’
‘I’m on your side, not hers,’ Rohan Jones answered.
***
Prison Officer Seb DeLeon had been in Her Majesty’s Prison Service for ten years. His parents had come over from Spain in the early days of the European Community. They had taken advantage of a relaxation in migration rules and moved from the warm and sunny climes of Barcelona to the cold and gloomy climes of an outer suburb of Bristol. It was there that they had opened a Spanish restaurant, which had flourished. It gave them the chance to give their only child, the precocious and difficult Sebastian, the chance of a good education. Seb’s father was enthusiastic for his son to become a professional – a lawyer, doctor, even a teacher – but Seb proved to be neither ambitious nor bright enough.
There had been a succession of jobs, mostly dead-end, before he realised that the prison service suited his diffident attitude to life. Regular salary, flexible hours and, with the prisoners locked up most of the time, not much to do. His summation proved to be correct. The first six years had been mainly open prisons, low security with mostly white-collar inmates, all classified non-violent. In time, and with seniority and a clean track record, he had been transferred to Her Majesty’s Prison, Belmarsh. Even he had been enthusiastic initially. A chance to do some real work, supervising some real prisoners, some hard cases, and the extra money would come in handy now that his wife had given birth to their fourth child, another daughter.
His enthusiasm had not lasted long. These were not hard cases, they were terrorists, total ratbags. They were not only dangerous, they were mad. Her Majesty’s Prison Belmarsh presented a new set of challenges. Here, they would happily kill you for no other reason than you were not of their religion, or they didn’t like the way you looked at them. Attempts at a transfer out of the prison back to somewhere more agreeable had fallen on deaf ears.
After one year at the prison, he decided he had to put a plan in place to leave the service. He had seen the other officers making tidy sums by assisting in the smuggling, which was rife. No drugs, he said to himself, but what harm could there be in a phone, some food, a few letters?
Shafi, the murderer and drug dealer, was already supporting a couple of prison officers. He thought that a third wouldn’t be a burden. It was a month later that Seb DeLeon took out a few letters in the lining of his jacket. He received one hundred in used notes for his trouble. He saw that he needed twenty to thirty thousand pounds and, if he focussed on the letter run, he could make that easy, maybe within twelve, no more than fourteen months. His parents were anxious to retire and, if he could give them at least half the value of their restaurant, it was his.
‘Shafi, I need more than a hundred each time,’ Seb said in the courtyard one Saturday morning.
‘That’s all there is for letters. If you want to bring in a phone or two, maybe some essentials, then I could arrange maybe two hundred.’
‘How will I conceal these?’ DeLeon asked.
‘It’s no problem,’ Shafi said.
‘They’ll check me as I bring them in. Even I’m screened by security coming in and out.’
‘And who does the screening?’
‘The prison officers, you know that.’
‘And why will they check you?’
‘It’s the regulations.’
‘And why won’t they check you?’
‘Why would they do that? It’s a disciplinary offence.’
‘It’s only an offence if it’s reported,’ Shafi said.
‘You’re right, but why wouldn’t they report it?’
‘You’ve been in prisons long enough. You know the answer.’
‘They’re on the take as well?’
‘Of course they are.’
‘How are they paid?’
‘The same way you are. Someone on the outside slips them an envelope down the pub, on the bus.
’
‘I thought it was only a few of the officers on the take?’
‘A few, a lot, what does it matter?’ Shafi said.
‘It doesn’t. I’ll bring in phones, essentials, but no drugs. Is that clear?’
‘That’s clear, no drugs.’
Eleven months, with no issues, and Seb had accumulated eighteen thousand pounds in a savings account at the local bank not far from his home. Another six months, another fifteen thousand pounds if he pushed it and he’d have enough for the restaurant. He decided to talk to Shafi, see if there was a chance of an increase in pay.
‘I need an increase for each run. There is a new prison officer and he was anxious to pat me down, until one of the others distracted his attention.’
‘It’s pretty certain he’s here to clamp down on the smuggling,’ Shafi said.
‘Are you saying that you’re going to slow down?’ Seb DeLeon asked.
‘No, not at all. We’re just going to have to increase the value of each run.’
‘Are you talking about drugs? You know I’m opposed to them.’
‘Why? You’ve been running them for the last six months.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Did you ever switch those phones on?’ Shafi asked.
‘No, why should I?’
‘They don’t work without a battery, do they?’
‘Are you saying they were all carrying drugs?’
‘Most of them were phones, although a few had no batteries inside. A good place to conceal some heroin, don’t you think? Prison Office DeLeon, how do you feel now that you know you’re a drug smuggler?’
‘I feel cheated that you did not pay me enough.’ He was not as upset as he thought he should have been, but he wanted money and here was leverage. ‘I want five hundred a run.’
‘I’ll play fair,’ Shafi said. ‘I’ll make it three hundred, no questions asked.’
‘No questions from my side. You’ll need to deal with the security screenings.’
‘You’ll not have any problems,’ said Shafi. ‘Especially from any new and enthusiastic prison officer.’
‘Are you going to pay him as well?’
‘I’ve no idea. There are some people outside who’ll check him out. Is he honest? Does he have a vice? Or do we just ensure he comes down with a severe bout of food poisoning on the day you’re doing a run? It’s not for you to worry about,’ Shafi said.
Murder Without Reason (DCI Cook Thriller Series Book 5) Page 15