Murder Without Reason (DCI Cook Thriller Series Book 5)

by Phillip Strang

  ‘I can guarantee my deputy will. I wouldn’t even be surprised if she’s bugged this room.’

  ‘Don’t you get a security sweep every day?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘Not every day, sometimes there’s a space of three days.’

  ‘I thought you two were working well together?’ Commander Goddard said. ‘At least, that’s how it’s reported.’

  ‘Confidentially, she’s a pain in the arse. If she were here now, she’d be tearing you to shreds.’

  ***

  ‘Shafi, we can use you. Can you move packages around the country unseen?’

  ‘Haji, sure I can.’ The two men had met in a small Asian restaurant not far from where Shafi lived.

  ‘They’re only small, it shouldn’t be too difficult.’

  ‘What’s in the packages?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Drugs, that’s what I think?’

  ‘You may be correct.’

  ‘I thought you were opposed to drugs of addiction?’ Shafi said.

  ‘We are, but we need money. If we sell it to the infidel, then Allah will forgive us,’ Haji replied.

  ‘I only need money. Drugs or cigarettes or bananas are of no concern to me. Pay me well and I’m fine.’

  ‘The money will be fine. Hopefully you will one day embrace the cause.’

  ‘On that day, you’ll stop all my pleasures as well,’ Shafi joked.

  ‘If you’re referring to pretty little boys and tarts off the streets, then that would be a condition.’

  ‘Then I will remain an employee, not a disciple,’ said Shafi. ‘Besides, the pretty little boys were in prison. Out here, it’s only females and as many as I can afford.’

  ‘I’ll send you some packages in the next few days with delivery details,’ said Haji. ‘How you get them there is your concern.’

  ‘What’s the pay?’ Shafi asked.

  ‘Two hundred pounds for every delivery you make.’

  ‘That’s less than you paid me when I was in Belmarsh.’

  ‘In Belmarsh you were the only person we could trust. Out here, there are plenty willing to work, and most for less than two hundred. It’s supply and demand, basic economics. You must have learnt that in one of the many rehabilitation classes in prison.’

  ‘Will you be dropping the parcels off to me personally?’ Shafi asked.

  ‘That’s unlikely. It is best if we communicate only by phone in future. We can never be sure if you’re being watched.’

  ‘Why would I be watched?’

  ‘We are always cautious, that is all,’ Haji said.

  Home to Shafi was a two-bedroom apartment in a depressing building not far from Marble Arch. It had cost him much of his meagre salary from the Counter Terrorism Command, hardly enough left over to feed and pay for at least one, sometimes two, whores at the weekend. It was not what he would call a great life, but he was free. As DCI Isaac Cook had said, ‘If you go back to your old ways, you’ll be in the slammer, no hope of a reprieve, no hope of a key to your cell for the rest of your life. You understand?’

  Sure, he understood, even if going honest had its downside.

  ‘If they contact you, then you contact us,’ DCI Cook had told him. ‘Go along with what they say, but don’t seem too keen. They know you’re not in agreement with their views and, if you suddenly say you are, they’ll be suspicious.’

  The detective chief inspector had been detailed and determined to hammer into Shafi’s brain the difficulties he faced. His freedom came at a cost and, until the Islamic State was no more, at least in England, he was a marked man. It was either a lifetime in Belmarsh or possible death at the hands of a group of religious extremists. Shafi chose possible death.

  A lifetime in prison was just that, and he knew no one would be coming again to make him an offer. And then there was the case of the pretty boy in the detention cell. They’d pin that death on him in an instant.

  ‘What if they offer me a job?’ Shafi had asked of Isaac Cook on his release from prison.

  ‘Take it, but don’t act like a repentant man,’ Isaac Cook had said.

  He had not acted as a repentant man with Haji, even embarrassed him with his talk of women and pretty boys. Or had he? Who was Haji, anyway? What was he? A little old man making some extra money, running some errands? Or was he more devious, more extremist, more dangerous? Shafi neither cared nor worried, as long as moving some packages came with some extra money, and neither DCI Cook nor DI Pickles had mentioned anything about the money the Islamic State might pay him. Selling drugs, transporting drugs paid better than working for the government and some extras in readies would ensure at least some better food and a better class of whore. His needs were simple, his values on life uncomplicated, and if Haji – or whoever – wanted to pay him some money, so much the better.

  ***

  Isaac and Ed were interested when Shafi phoned them later that day.

  ‘When are you meeting Haji again?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘I don’t think I am. He says it’s not a good idea. Does it matter?’

  ‘We need to find out who he is. Do you have any ideas?’

  ‘Not a clue. I’ve only met him twice.’

  ‘He may be the old man that visited Soapy,’ Ed said.

  ‘Is he the same man?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘How would I know?’

  ‘You were in the same prison. If Soapy had a visitor and he said he was his grandfather, then maybe they’re one and the same.’ Ed was adamant in ascertaining the facts.

  ‘I never had the run of the place, you know that,’ said Shafi. ‘If Soapy had a visitor, and unless I had one also, then I wouldn’t have seen him. There are three steel doors between the cells and the visitors’ room.’

  ‘We’ve got him on video. Could you ID a photo?’ asked Ed.

  ‘I suppose I could.’

  ‘Is that him?’ Ed asked after he sent a photo via his mobile phone.

  ‘He looks like a dozen old Muslim men that I know,’ said Shafi. ‘But yes, that’s him.’

  ‘We need to find out who he is,’ Isaac said.

  ‘Don’t look at me,’ Shafi said. ‘I’m not going to ask him. My life is more valuable than that. I don’t want to be found in the gutter with my throat slit or, even worse, my balls stuck in my mouth.’

  ‘We’re not asking you to stick your nose out,’ Ed Pickles said. ‘Just stay clean with them and protect yourself.’

  ‘What I don’t get,’ Shafi said, ‘is why they’re asking me to move some packages? If they’re small, they could use any number of people to transport them, no questions asked for a few hundred notes.’

  ‘They’re testing you, don’t you get it?’ Ed said.

  ‘What do you mean “testing”?’

  ‘They’re suspicious. You get out easy and in record time on the basis of a couple of drunken police officers having a change of heart. And they know Soapy’s appeal lawyers were bogus…’

  ‘Are you guys saying that my life is in danger?’ Shafi lifted his voice, causing those in the café where he was sitting to look up from their cups of tea and turn in his direction.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Ed, ‘but they are a suspicious people. They see intrigue and subterfuge in each and every action. That’s why we can’t get close to them. If they see us sniffing around, even if they see a white man walking a dog or arguing with his girlfriend too close to them, they get suspicious.’

  ‘You’ve got some dogs and an argumentative girlfriend?’ Shafi asked.

  ‘We’ve got whatever we want. We’ve got you,’ Ed said.

  ‘And you’re willing to get me killed?’

  ‘We’re trying to protect you, but we’ll get nowhere unless you’re inside with them.’

  ‘They’ll not let me in. I’m not one of them, they know that.’

  ‘You need their trust first. How we get you in closer is something for further thought.’

  ‘I’m not putting on one of their suicide vests.’ />
  ‘We never asked you to do that,’ said Ed. ‘We need to stop them, or it’s our way of life down the tube, and in the new order there’ll be no pretty boys or whores for you to screw.’

  ‘I told you, and I told Haji, pretty boys are for prison. Females are for outside.’

  ‘Yes, we know,’ Isaac said. ‘You’ve told us enough times already.’

  ***

  York Minister, one of the largest cathedrals in Northern Europe, had commenced construction in the 14th century. It was nearly eighty years later, in the 15th century, that the last stained glass window, the final brick and the last statue had been put in place. It claimed the largest expanse of medieval stained glass in the world. The history, the workmanship and the heritage meant nothing to the Islamic State. It was an integral part of the culture that made England the nation that it had become in the 21st century.

  The campaign to raise the twenty-five million pounds for substantive restoration works had concluded eighteen months previous and, for four months, up to sixty men had laboured for six days a week to ensure that the roof would not collapse due to the rigours of close on seven hundred years of damp and dry rot. A belief from the Archbishop in the inherent goodness of man had ensured little or no security. There had been a directive from the Counter Terrorism Command through the London Metropolitan Police and the Yorkshire Constabulary informing of increased possible terrorist activities aimed at targets of cultural and religious significance, but the Archbishop had not given his permission for an extensive search.

  ‘This is a house of God, not a shopping centre,’ the Archbishop had said. ‘They may have their faults, but they are a religious people. Our God and their God are one and the same. We are all the children of Abraham.’

  Archbishop Christopher Fairfax was a good man, if naive. In his fiftieth year and still looking fit for his age, he had overseen the collection of the money for the restoration with an unrelenting ardour. As a young man, he had ministered in prisons throughout the country, later a parish church, then as a bishop and, finally, the Archbishop of York. He was a contented man who had spent time in discussions with his Muslim and Jewish counterparts, even conducting joint services, a first in a cathedral in England.

  The restorations had progressed well and when the lead architect in charge of the restorations had stated that no unqualified persons – and that included policemen – were to climb the flimsy scaffolding or to walk across the top of the roof, the Archbishop had heeded his warning.

  ‘If they walk up there, I cannot guarantee the structure,’ Barry Cardiff, the architect, had said, referring to the police. ‘We’re underpinning the roof, putting in some new trusses. It’s a critical operation. They’re not the lightest of people.’

  ‘They’re acting on advice from the Counter Terrorism Command,’ the Archbishop had told him. ‘They’re concerned that we may be a target.’

  ‘What are they looking for?’ Barry Cardiff asked.

  Cardiff and Son, architects, structural engineers, and restoration experts, had been awarded the contract after fierce competition from three other companies. They had won based on their ability to complete in three months, whereas the other tenderers had stated six. It was now four months, and there was clearly another five months’ more work.

  Barry Cardiff and his son, Sam, had convinced the restoration committee that the lower price, and shortened time scale, was as a result of experience and superior project management. The complaints from the other tenderers that Barry Cardiff and Son had a history of poor quality, time delays and cost overruns were put down as sour grapes by Barry Cardiff at the final meeting of the restoration committee. The final vote as to who to use was with the Archbishop, and it was his cautious approach to cost that had carried the day. Cardiff and Son took the contract.

  The Archbishop trusted Barry Cardiff. A name such as Cardiff could only bode well after his time in South Wales as a young man at a religious seminary there. What the good man did not know was that Cardiff was a name adopted by his grandfather and that Barry was Bashir.

  Archbishop Fairfax had to admit, in the months following the decision to use Barry Cardiff, that the delays, the cost overruns and, in some cases, the poor workmanship was causing him to doubt his choice of the company to use for the restoration.

  ‘I can’t let you go up on the roof. If it collapses, then it is to the cost of the police. Do I make myself clear?’ said Graeme Oates, York Minster’s head of security.

  ‘Have you checked the roof?’ Inspector Wilkinson asked. A member of the Yorkshire Constabulary, he had been charged with checking out the most significant religious structure in the region.

  ‘We’re all ex-policeman here,’ Graeme Oates said. ‘We’re more than capable of conducting our own search.’

  ‘Do you know what you’re looking for?’ Inspector Wilkinson asked.

  ‘Anything suspicious?’

  ‘You’re right. If you say you’re going to do it, then there’s not much more that I can do. Check in the roof, that’s the most likely place.’

  ‘We already have. We’re diligent in our duties,’ Graeme Oates said. A former Senior Constable, two years retired from the force, was determined in his men’s protection of the old historic building. They maintained a constant watch, but they had seen nothing of note, except for an old shopping bag the previous Sunday. It was found to belong to a lady in the early stages of dementia, who had forgotten why she had brought it to the early morning service and wondered even if it was hers.

  Chapter 1 7

  Seb DeLeon was back on duty, relieved that he had avoided criminal charges, concerned as to what might be required of him. The phone call was not unexpected, his response different from the previous occasions. It was clear that his smuggling, petty as it was in the past, had taken a turn for the worst, possibly a turn into danger. Counter Terrorism Command would not have got him off, just for a little information. It was clear that Haji was a terrorist.

  ‘I’ve had a phone call,’ Prison Officer Seb DeLeon said on the phone to Isaac soon after.

  ‘Haji?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘It’s Haji alright. He wants to meet up.’

  ‘Have you agreed?’

  ‘Yes, tomorrow, Café Paradiso, on High Road in Willesden.’

  ‘Have you met him there before?’

  ‘No, it’s new to me. I’m not even sure which bus to take.’

  ‘Any idea why he’s picking a different location?’

  ‘No idea. It may just be normal practice to move the locations around,’ DeLeon replied. ‘Are you planning to follow him once he leaves?’

  ‘That’s the idea.’

  ‘And if he asks me to smuggle anything in?’

  ‘You agree. We’ll deal with the security at the gate. They’ll check you, but they’ll find nothing.’

  ‘You’re still going to honour our deal?’

  ‘You play fair with us, we’ll play fair with you.’

  ‘I’ll play fair alright, but we’re dealing with some dangerous people here. I’m not looking forward to meeting up with him again.’

  ‘We’ll keep a watch out for you,’ said Isaac.

  ‘You’ll be in the café?’

  ‘Whatever you do, don’t go looking around for familiar faces, it’s a dead giveaway. Haji didn’t get to be an old man without picking up some experience. He’ll spot a scared, nervous man in an instant.’

  ‘Could he become dangerous?’ DeLeon asked nervously.

  ‘It’s unlikely, but he’ll have others who can deal with any violence if it’s needed.’

  Later that day as Seb DeLeon entered the Café Paradiso, he realised it did not live up to its name. Ten years previously it may have been a reasonable place for a cup of coffee and cake, but now the coffee was unpleasant and the cakes looked stale. The sight of a dead cockroach swept into a back corner of the café, where a dozen old plastic tables and some metal chairs were randomly positioned, did not entice him. If not for the meeting with
Haji, he would have given it a wide berth.

  ‘Seb, I apologise for our meeting here.’

  ‘It’s not the best, is it?’

  ‘It is a dump, but it’s away from prying eyes.’

  ‘Are there prying eyes?’

  ‘It always pays to be careful.’

  ‘You want me to take something in? It was touch and go last time.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Haji.

  ‘They tightened the regulations. I narrowly avoided a search.’

  ‘Why? Has there been a change in the procedure?’

  ‘They figured out Shafi was heavily involved in the smuggling.’

  ‘They must have known that anyway?’

  ‘They probably did, but Shafi’s gone and the smuggling is still continuing.’

  ‘It means one of two things,’ Haji said. ‘Either someone honest is trying to stamp out the smuggling, or someone needs a few sweeteners.’

  ‘You don’t mean the Governor?’

  ‘Too many questions can be damaging to your health,’ Haji said.

  ‘Just tell me what you want. I’ve still got a restaurant to pay for.’

  ‘We want something out this time.’

  ‘A letter is not a problem, even a photo. I’m sure it can be arranged.’

  ‘It’s someone.’

  ‘You’re not serious!’ The obviously nervous prison officer almost spilt his coffee over Haji.

  ‘I am totally serious,’ Haji said.

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘It’s simple,’ Haji raised the pressure. ‘Either you do, or we’ll send a complete report of your smuggling activities to the authorities, with a clear statement of proof that you are knowingly aiding and abetting a terrorist organisation. How many years do you think you’ll get?’

  ‘This is blackmail. You know it is.’

  ‘Blackmail, that’s such a nasty word,’ said Haji. ‘It is a business transaction. We have the means for you to buy your restaurant, and you have the means to give us what we want.’

  ‘It can’t be done. The security is intense. You’ll never get whoever it is past the gates.’