Murder Without Reason (DCI Cook Thriller Series Book 5)

by Phillip Strang

  Anne Argento was pleased with the debate in the chamber. Yet again, Clifford Bell was under pressure and feeling the heat, when it should have been a time for him to bask in the glory, whether he had been there or not.

  Three months and she knew she’d be taking the flak from the Opposition Leader, the Honourable Ernest Bakewell, a slimy piece of nothing in her estimation. He’d put the hard word on her at a Christmas party in Westminster, the first year she had been elected. It was a time when, in the spirit of true democracy, both sides of the House got together for a few drinks and a few laughs.

  Bakewell, government school educated with a penchant for bad language and whores dressed as schoolgirls, thought the party had been a chance for him to get a leg over the new backbencher. He smelt of whisky and sausages, she of eau de cologne and the new member from an electorate up north was more to her taste. The Leader of the Opposition was rebuffed after she had called him a drunken slob of a man when, round the back of the room, he had brushed past, his hand held high enough to take a squeeze of her left breast.

  He never forgave her, as she, him. She was going to slaughter him when she was Prime Minister. She was going to make him feel the abhorrence of her vindictive tongue, the way she had felt abhorrence at the salacious gestures he had made in the intervening years.

  ‘I ask the Prime Minister,’ Ernest Bakewell, full of fire and brimstone continued, ‘what his involvement in York was.’

  ‘I have been in consultation with members of the police force. They have acted on my full authority.’

  Clifford, Clifford, you’ve given him an opening to ask questions you can’t answer, the Deputy PM thought.

  ‘What authority does the Prime Minister have that does not require the agreement of the House?’ Ernest Bakewell asked.

  ‘I have discretionary powers in accordance with my leadership of this nation.’

  ‘Prime Minister, you’re evading the question. I agree that you have certain powers, but which ones have you used here? Did you give them permission to kill one of the terrorists? Did they have your authority to shoot if necessary?’

  ‘I would remind the honourable member,’ Clifford Bell stood firm. ‘No one was shot.’

  ‘Someone was killed. Was it an assassination?’

  ‘It is to my knowledge, an accident. The dead person had attempted to push a member of the police force off the scaffolding where they were standing.’

  ‘What do you mean “to my knowledge”? You’ve just told us you were in charge.’

  ‘I said that I was fully informed.’

  ‘Sit down, Clifford, before you get into more trouble,’ Anne whispered in his ear.

  ‘The matters pertaining to the successful outcome in York are subject to confidentiality. I am not at liberty to say any more on the matter.’ Prime Minister Bell took her advice.

  ‘Shame, shame,’ was heard from the Opposition.

  ‘You’re meant to be my deputy. Why didn’t you leap to my support?’ the Prime Minister angrily whispered.

  ‘You were doing a good enough job on your own of shooting yourself in the foot.’

  ‘I thought you were meant to support me in public and in the House. That was our agreement!’

  ‘I’ve honoured our agreement. You can’t debate Bakewell without giving him facts, which will impact on what Isaac Cook is up to. You know that.’

  ‘How do you know Isaac Cook?’ the Prime Minister asked.

  ‘It’s my job to know everything, including who you screwed last night.’

  ‘I was at home with my wife,’ the Prime Minister said.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, ‘I’ll never use it. But it’s an unusual use for a feather duster.’

  ‘Anne, sometimes I think you’re the most devious politician in the House.’

  ‘Sometimes, Clifford?’

  ‘Always then,’ he replied. ‘And you’re after my job.’

  ‘You know I am.’

  ‘Well, I’m not going to let you have it without a fight.’

  ‘Feather dusters at dawn, is that what you want, Clifford?’

  ‘You said you wouldn’t use that.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I won’t. We’ll always be friends. But politically, we’re as different as chalk and cheese.’

  ‘Friends, one day we may be,’ the Prime Minister conceded, ‘but not at the present moment.’

  ‘Clifford, you have made the most astute statement of your career.’ Anne Argento smiled.

  ***

  Farhan Ahmed was the best close-in surveillance person in Counter Terrorism Command. He had been tasked with following Haji after his meeting with Seb DeLeon.

  ‘You followed Haji from Willesden?’ Isaac Cook asked.

  ‘I did, but he knew how to shake a tail.’ Farhan Ahmed came to the department as a senior constable, anxious to prove his mettle in the cut and thrust of anti-terrorism.

  ‘He gave you the slip?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘He nearly did.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He’s been trained in keeping to the corners, ducking around cars, disappearing down alleys,’ Farhan said.

  ‘Yes, but what does this give us?’

  ‘It makes him almost impossible to follow.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s simple. He ducks down an alley, and if I follow he’ll spot me. If he heads into domestic English suburbia, an Asian dressed in a suit will stand out. It’s the same as a white man in a ghetto in Jamaica.’

  ‘It’s a topical analogy,’ Isaac agreed. ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘I had already set it up with a few colleagues. We figured his possible exit routes and then installed certain people in certain areas.’

  ‘People who wouldn’t stand out?’ Isaac asked. ‘Do you think he suspected you were behind him?’

  ‘No, we’re better than that.’

  ‘So, what and who is Haji?’

  ‘We’ve got an address where he visited and a name,’ said Farhan.

  ‘Firstly, the name,’ Isaac asked.

  ‘His name is Fraz Wahlah.’

  ‘Any more detail?’

  ‘He came to this country in his late thirties. Ex-major, served on the East Pakistan border during the conflict with Indian in the early seventies.’

  ‘Let me guess, intelligence?’ Isaac said.

  ‘That’s right. The military records of the period are very detailed. Our man has a proud record of achievement. He’s not a little old man aiming to make a few pounds. He’s a major player.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘We found the voice on the phone. At the address, Fraz Wahlah visited.’

  ‘Did you hear the voice?’

  ‘Not at the address. It was a house, by the way. But later, we phoned up one of the resident’s businesses and the voice was on the answering machine.’

  ‘This is a major development,’ Ed Pickles said. ‘Isaac, where do we go from here?’

  ‘I’m not sure. We need time to follow through. Taking out some of the key players will only delay. They always have someone ready to take up the slack, maintain the fight.’

  ‘What’s his name?’ Ed asked.

  ‘The Master?’ Farhan said.

  ‘Yes, of course, the Master,’ Ed reaffirmed his question.

  ‘His name is Faisal Aslam. He’s a wealthy guy, owns supermarkets.’

  ‘Why’s he messing around with a group of extremists then?’ Ed asked.

  ‘Who knows? Does it matter?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘Probably not, but if he’s in it for power or religion, it may have some influence on how we intend to neutralise him.’

  ‘You’re right, Ed,’ said Isaac. ‘We better get Vane and Martin on to this. How are they, by the way?’

  ‘Andrew’s alright, but Frederick’s looking over his shoulder all the time,’ Ed replied.

  ***

  Seb DeLeon, after his reprieve by the Counter Terrorism Command, was back at work inside Her
Majesty’s Prison Belmarsh. It had been quiet for some weeks, and he had put the damp cell and the questioning by Detective Inspector Pickles behind him. He had hoped that his life would continue as before, and the meeting with Haji in the rundown café in Willesden was the last involvement he would have with either Isaac Cook and Ed Pickles and, hopefully, Haji, although he still needed his money for the restaurant. His hopes were shattered when Haji phoned him early one morning.

  ‘I’m sending you a small package by post.’

  ‘And the money?’

  ‘It’s in the package.’

  ‘Who do I deliver it to?’

  ‘The Prof. Is that okay?’ Haji said.

  ‘He’s as good as anyone. This will be my last job for you. I’m getting out of the prison service.’

  ‘Do this well and we’ll have no further need of anyone in Belmarsh.’

  ‘Haji, I can’t say I support your cause, but you’ve always played fair by me. I wish you well and a long life.’

  ‘Seb, I wish you a long life as well.’ Haji was not a sentimentalist and, whereas he may have admitted that Seb DeLeon was not a bad person, his life was to be measured in days, not years. Besides, he had never made any reference to the Islamic State before. He realised that Seb DeLeon was either smarter than he seemed or someone had told him something.

  Security was rigid yet flexible the day Seb DeLeon brought the package into Belmarsh. A quick phone call from Isaac and Ed had resulted in a change of guards at the heavy, foreboding gates to the prison. It was thirty minutes later, at the start of his shift, that Seb confronted the Prof.

  ‘I’ve got something for you,’ the prison officer said behind the security of a partially open cell door on the second floor of the cell block.

  ‘Thanks, some more memory for my laptop?’ the Prof replied.

  ‘I only deliver. What’s in it, I haven’t a clue.’

  ‘Wise man,’ said the Prof. ‘That’s the way for a long life.’

  ‘Do you know what’s in it, Prof?’

  ‘Something that’s going to make me very ill, I hope.’

  ‘That’s a strange wish.’

  ‘If it gets me where I want to go then I don’t mind.’ It was clear to Seb DeLeon that the Prof knew what the package contained.

  Methamphetamine, the technical name, crystal meth the name on the street. The Prof had used it once before when he was free and successful and before that bitch, Diana, had dumped him. It should have given him an extreme high followed by a manageable low, but his reactions had not been as expected. The lows were psychotic, suicidal, and it was only a hospital’s intervention and a straitjacket that had saved his life.

  Once he was away from prying eyes and behind his cell door, he administered the drug. The only other time he had tried it, he had rolled it into a hollowed-out cigarette, the tobacco discarded. This time, the instructions were clear: two tablets. He only hoped the person who had prepared the dosage knew what they were doing. The Master had said that there was nothing to worry about.

  The Prof fearful of what he was doing, swallowed the tablets. He took the drug and felt the elation suitably delayed as the tablets dissolved inside his mouth. The next thing he remembered was the comedown and then the jolting of the ambulance as it headed to the hospital with him strapped down and Seb DeLeon on guard duty. He should have been off duty, but there had been a last-minute change in the roster.

  ‘Hey, this is not the route to the hospital,’ DeLeon banged on the separating compartment between him and the driver.

  ‘It’s a short cut. We don’t have time for the long way.’ The driver’s voice was heavily accented and sounded as though it belonged to a strong man.

  Ten minutes later and five kilometres from the hospital, the ambulance came to a stop.

  ‘What are we stopping here for?’ shouted DeLeon. ‘This man is seriously ill. He needs a doctor immediately. He could die.’

  ‘Seb, he’ll not die. It’s only a weak dose that he’s been given,’ a voice emanated from the front cab’s passenger seat, a voice that he knew.

  ‘Haji, what are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m completing my task.’

  ‘What task is that?’

  ‘I am to ensure that the Prof is delivered to the Master and that there will be no evidence.’

  ‘What do you mean by evidence? I’ve done my part.’ Seb DeLeon realised the situation was dangerous.

  ‘Yes, you have done your part well, and hopefully, you believe in martyrdom.’

  ‘You have no right to do this. I have always played fair by you.’

  ‘As I have by you, but there are times when a greater sacrifice is required. Unfortunately, Seb, you are part of that sacrifice.’

  ‘You have no right to do this.’

  ‘I have the right of a benevolent God. What do you have?’ Haji asked.

  ‘I have my faith as a Christian. I am not a murderer as you are.’ Seb DeLeon frantically tried to open the rear doors to escape.

  ‘A murderer? That depends on your viewpoint. I have killed many in my lifetime. They were all deserving: Hindus in India, Christians in England, it makes no difference. Even a few Muslims, when they have betrayed their faith.’

  ‘But why me? What have I done to you?’

  ‘You have done nothing. In a different time and place, I may have considered you as a friend. But today, and for the Islamic State, I must kill you.’

  ‘Please don’t. I’ll not tell anyone.’

  ‘I know you will not.’

  Peering through the small hatch separating the driver’s cab from the area at the back, Haji shot Seb DeLeon cleanly through the heart. Later, as they removed the Prof for transfer to a waiting vehicle, Haji shot him once more in the temple.

  ‘Am I free?’ the Prof feebly mumbled.

  It was Haji who answered. ‘Yasser Lahham, you are free, my brother.’

  Chapter 19

  Sara Aslam had loved her husband Ray Styles, even though he had been a non-believer. His death upset her greatly. Her devotion to the Islamic State had caused her to act in a manner that was unbecoming of a devout Muslim female. She had been promiscuous and had worn clothes that only a whore would wear. It was her love for Islam and for her father, Faisal Aslam that held her steady in the months after the submarine had been lost, all hands at sea. It had been in the third month that she approached her father.

  ‘Father, I am ready for martyrdom.’ Her dead husband would not have recognised her dressed as she was in a head-to-toe abaya, black in colour, with her head well-covered. She struggled with the concept of the extreme modesty, the third-rate citizen that she had become, the need to follow the lead of a man without question.

  ‘My child, I had hoped that, in time, you would not talk of such matters,’ her father said. He loved his daughter dearly, more than a leader of a fundamentalist organisation should.

  ‘I can serve the cause, but I cannot live the life that it requires of me,’ she said.

  ‘You saw freedom, a life without responsibility and without deference to Allah.’

  ‘I saw it, and I enjoyed it.’

  ‘A life without Allah is a life not worth living,’ Faisal Aslam replied.

  ‘My devotion to Allah understands, but my body and my mind are in conflict. To continue my life in this manner would be a lie.’

  ‘I had hoped that you would return and take a husband of my choosing.’

  ‘I cannot give myself to another man. There was but one man and I killed him.’

  ‘Those who have been martyred are of small consequence. They were not of my blood,’ her father said.

  ‘Father, Ray Styles was of my blood. You must let me do this.’

  ‘I had a good man chosen for you,’ said Faisal Aslam, ‘a good servant to the cause, an intelligent man.’

  ‘I will not accept him.’

  ‘Then I am saddened.’

  ‘Father, you must accede to my wishes. You must allow me to do this.’

&nbs
p; ‘There is a task that only you can achieve,’ her father said reluctantly.

  ‘What is required of me?’ she asked.

  ‘You will need to go back as Mrs Ray Styles, the grieving widow.’

  ‘How is that possible? My absence for the last few months, how can that be explained?’

  ‘You will say that you were in India in solitude, grieving.’

  ‘How will I return to my previous life?’ Sara asked.

  ‘You will appear to fly back from India, and you will go and see your dead husband’s parents.’

  ‘It will be difficult. They were good people. It will be hard to deceive them after I was responsible for the death of their son.’

  ‘You must remain resolute in the cause and your love of Allah. He will show you the way.’

  ‘Father, I will remain resolute, devoted to the Islamic State and Allah.’

  ‘My child, then go in peace,’ her father said with great sadness.

  ***

  Frederick Vane and Andrew Martin were the centre of attention after their analysis had been proven correct. Saving York Minster had proven their validity. The Counter Terrorism Command, the Metropolitan Police and the Prime Minister’s office wanted more.

  ‘What will they hit next?’ Andrew asked as they sat in their office without any clear direction.

  ‘What about your wife? Is she fine in New Zealand?’ Frederick asked.

  ‘She’s angry that I’m not going.’

  ‘Doesn’t she know what we’re up to?’

  ‘Yes, she’s been told by the New Zealand version of our Counter Terrorism Command.’

  ‘They don’t have much to worry about down there,’ Frederick assumed.

  ‘They’re everywhere,’ Andrew replied. ‘Why should New Zealand be excluded just because it’s on the other side of the world?’

  ‘You’re right. Does she have protection?’

  ‘There’s always a police car at the end of the street, but other than that it’s relatively low key.’

  ‘What about us, our security?’ Frederick was still uncomfortable with the knowledge that they may be targeted.

  ‘I’m worried,’ Andrew admitted. ‘We’re easy targets and, if they consider we’re a threat, they’ll have us eliminated in an instance.’