Murder Without Reason (DCI Cook Thriller Series Book 5)

by Phillip Strang

  ‘We’re the back-room boffins,’ said Frederick. ‘We provide our analysis, and then he either acts or doesn’t act as he sees fit.’

  ‘You figured out that they would attack York Minster?’

  ‘Deputy Prime Minister, not specifically York Minster, just that the Church was a likely target,’ Andrew confirmed.

  ‘You put forward that it would be a significant target, subject to reconstruction, renovation activities.’

  ‘Yes, that came from us,’ Frederick agreed.

  ‘How did you do that?’ the Deputy PM asked.

  ‘We’re analysts,’ Andrew explained. ‘It’s what we do. We take the facts and figures and aim to see a pattern. The pattern invariably projects forward to a future action.’

  ‘So where will they attack next?’ she asked.

  ‘I may be disrespectful,’ Andrew broached a difficult issue, ‘but shouldn’t we be giving this information to the Prime Minister as well?’

  ‘Mr Martin,’ Anne Argento laughed out loud. ‘Who do you think will be the Prime Minister in a few months’ time? What’s your analysis?’

  ‘Deputy Prime Minister, that’s not an analysis we’ve conducted, although I don’t think it would require much effort to come up with a conclusion.’

  ‘What’s the conclusion?’

  ‘You will be the next Prime Minister of the United Kingdom.’

  ‘Correct,’ she smugly admitted. ‘I need to know what’s going on. We’ve got to beat these people with whatever methods we can. This is not a time for pussy-footing around as the Prime Minister does. This is a time for action.’

  ‘Are you asking us to report to you as well as to Isaac Cook?’ Frederick asked.

  ‘Yes, I am. Do you have any problem with this?’

  ‘I think we’re fine with that,’ Andrew answered for both of them. Frederick nodded his head in agreement.

  ‘What’s the next target?’ Anne Argento continued.

  ‘York Minster was unsuccessful,’ Frederick said, ‘so probably a number of small churches. The military, they took out a submarine so they’ll keep clear of them for a while.’

  ‘What about the police?’

  ‘You should be an analyst, Deputy Prime Minister,’ Andrew said.

  ‘Do you believe they would risk attacking the police?’ Anne Argento asked.

  ‘It would make sense,’ Andrew acknowledged. ‘They’ve left them alone so far, apart from tying up their resources.’

  ‘It’s got to be big?’ she stated.

  ‘The biggest,’ Frederick said.

  ‘You mean they’ll go after New Scotland Yard?’ Anne Argento said. ‘But it’s too heavily protected. They’ll never get near.’

  ‘They can sink a submarine, nearly destroy a cathedral. If they want to take out a police station, they will, no matter how big or well protected it is.’ Andrew disputed the Deputy Prime Minister’s statement.

  ‘How will they do it?’ she asked.

  ‘That’s for us to analyse,’ Frederick said.

  ‘Then you better go now and work on this. I’ll let DCI Cook know that we’ve met.’

  ‘And the Prime Minister?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘You let me worry about the Prime Minister. You worry about New Scotland Yard, and whatever else these lunatics are attempting to blow up.’

  ***

  ‘Shafi, I’m sending you twenty packages.’ It had been a few weeks since any contact from Haji and Shafi had used his time well, the regular pay packet courtesy of the British taxpayer, some decent if basic accommodation and a few whores. He had even found the two who had visited him in the hospital.

  ‘Haji, send me the addresses, and I will ensure they reach their destinations.’

  ‘Two hundred pounds for each delivery, that’s what we agreed?’

  ‘Four grand, that’s fine,’ Shafi replied.

  A derelict warehouse off a side street down by the docks in East London had been the agreed drop-off point. Twenty cardboard boxes, taped and marked fragile, were neatly stacked in the far corner with the addresses clearly attached.

  ‘You’ve got the packages?’ Haji asked.

  ‘Yes, they’re fine. Are they dangerous?’

  ‘Not as they are.’

  ‘I’ll ship them tomorrow.’ Shafi, unable to resist the chance of some extra profit, saw no reason to rent a truck for delivery. Sending them via a courier company seemed a good enough solution.

  ‘I’m sending you some addresses,’ Shafi said on the phone to DCI Isaac Cook.

  ‘What are these addresses?’ Isaac Cook asked.

  ‘I sent some packages for Haji.’

  ‘Any idea what’s in the packages?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘The boxes said crockery, handle with care. What do you think?’ Shafi answered a question with a question.

  ‘I’d say explosives,’ Isaac replied.

  ‘They were about twenty kilos each,’ Shafi said.

  ‘They could be suicide vests.’

  At around the same time, Haji and the Master were sitting back in the comfort of the Master’s house discussing the situation with Shafi.

  ‘The packages were received satisfactorily at their destinations?’ the Master asked.

  ‘Yes, Shafi, as usual, tried to score some extra money by sending them with a cut-rate courier,’ Haji replied.

  ‘He really is an unscrupulous individual. Are you sure we can use him?’

  ‘Master, we need him,’ Haji replied.

  ‘But we could never trust him.’

  ‘Master, he can be trusted.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ The Master wanted true believers, not mercenaries.

  ‘We will convert him to the cause,’ Haji said.

  ‘How can you do that?’ the Master asked.

  ‘We’ll scare him into conversion.’

  ‘Is that possible?’

  ‘We did it on the border with India when I was in East Pakistan,’ Haji said.

  ‘Explain?’ The Master was interested.

  ‘We’ll subject him to some special treatment. We’ll brainwash him.’

  ‘Is it worth it?’ the Master asked.

  ‘Yes. It’s clear he’s playing us off against the Counter Terrorism Command,’ Haji said.

  ‘Are you sure on this?’

  ‘I’m sure. How else could he have got out of Belmarsh Prison? Plus, the judge at the appeals court is a right bitch. She’d throw anyone inside for five years for an unpaid parking ticket. It was all too easy.’

  ‘Are you suggesting a double agent working for us?’

  ‘That’s what I’m suggesting,’ Haji said. ‘At the present moment, he’s playing it both ways, mainly their way. How can you know he’s not feeding them information? Master, he’s just shipped twenty packages full of books for us.’

  ‘What’s the point?’ the Master asked.

  ‘If they had been intercepted, we would have known that he had passed on the information.’

  ‘And if he hasn’t?’ the Master asked.

  ‘We give him the treatment either way,’ Haji replied.

  ‘Haji, what about the other twenty packages?’

  ‘They’re in place. They are ready.’

  ***

  ‘I’m aware that you’ve met the Deputy Prime Minister?’ Isaac Cook said at the scheduled meeting at Frederick and Andrew’s office. Ed Pickles had come along as well. The predicted attack on the churches in the country still troubled Counter Terrorism Command.

  ‘She called us in to discuss global warming.’ Andrew was a little embarrassed, not sure what to say. On the one hand, there was a confidential agreement in place with the Counter Terrorism Command, yet on the other, the Deputy Prime Minister was asking direct questions.

  ‘Is that what she talked about, global warming?’ Isaac Cook was not surprised by Anne Argento’s actions, just a little miffed that he had not been consulted by either party about the meeting.

  ‘No, she knew what we were up to,’ Andrew admitted. ‘Sh
e also said that she knew you.’

  ‘I’ve met her once,’ said Isaac. True, there had been the one official meeting, but there had been a couple of after-hours get-togethers at a discreet pub in the country. Nothing intimate, but very cosy.

  ‘How do we tell the Deputy Prime Minister of the United Kingdom that we are not at liberty to discuss our work?’ Frederick asked.

  ‘With Anne Argento, it’s impossible. She’d hang you out to dry if you became too smart with her,’ Isaac said.

  ‘That’s what we thought,’ Frederick replied.

  ‘Did you like her?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘We both did,’ Andrew said.

  ‘That’s my opinion of her as well.’ Isaac liked her, both professionally and personally. He had no intention of elaborating on the latter.

  ‘She said she’s going to be the next Prime Minister,’ Frederick said.

  ‘Which means she will be,’ Ed said.

  ‘Okay, let’s get back to the matter at hand.’ Isaac directed the conversation back to Frederick and Andrew’s analysis. ‘Shafi’s shipped some packages for Haji.’

  ‘What sort of packages?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘Cardboard boxes, according to Shafi.’

  ‘Suicide vests, is that what you are thinking?’ Frederick asked.

  ‘That’s what we would assume. We don’t want to blow Shafi’s cover, but we can’t let them be used,’ Isaac said.

  ‘It’s a dilemma,’ Frederick said. ‘You need to be careful here. It seems unlikely that they would trust him with a shipment of this importance. They know he’s not a believer in their cause.’

  ‘You suspect it’s a test?’ Ed Pickles asked.

  ‘It may be, but how are you going to find out without blowing Shafi’s cover?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ Ed answered.

  ‘You need to check out at least one of the packages. Do you have the addresses?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘Yes, we’ll make a plan to check one of them,’ said Isaac.

  ‘You know what this means?’ Frederick said.

  ‘No, please explain.’ Isaac wasn’t sure where Frederick was heading with his question.

  ‘There are three possibilities,’ said Frederick. ‘The first is that they intend to involve Shafi more deeply if he passes this test. Secondly, if the boxes are proven not to contain explosives, then another twenty or so have been sent to other locations…’

  ‘And thirdly,’ Isaac interjected, knowing the answer before Frederick gave it. ‘They intend to hit the churches this Sunday?’

  ‘That’s correct,’ said Frederick.

  ‘But we don’t have a clue where they will be,’ said Isaac. ‘And if we issue an ultimatum, even an order to close all the churches, it may weaken Shafi’s cover.’

  ‘We’re between a rock and a hard place on this one,’ Ed acknowledged.

  ‘You better hope,’ Frederick said, ‘that Shafi’s boxes contain explosives. At least you’ve got a chance, however slim, to reduce the number of fatalities.’

  ‘That’s our best hope, but how Shafi will survive is anyone’s guess.’

  ‘I don’t think he is our primary concern here, do you?’ Andrew said.

  ‘No, of course not,’ Isaac replied. ‘But he was our best hope of getting someone inside the organisation.’

  ‘Shafi’s only on Shafi’s side, you know that?’ Andrew said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Isaac. ‘He’s a creature of the street. He’ll do whatever is best for him, and that means working for those who can keep him out of prison.’

  ‘It’s either the Islamic State or us,’ Andrew said.

  ‘You make out that this is still possible,’ Ed said.

  ‘It is possible,’ Andrew replied. ‘It’s a long shot, may not happen next year, may take ten, twenty years, but it’s coming unless we fight back.’

  ‘Did you get that from Anne Argento?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘No, but she’s right and we all know it.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Isaac. ‘But for now, we’ve got to protect some worshippers and one disreputable murderer and sodomiser of pretty boys.’

  ‘And patron of local whores,’ Ed added.

  ‘The problem,’ Andrew added, ‘is that the sodomiser is more important to us at this present moment than the pious worshippers.’

  ***

  ‘I’m meant to be your loyal deputy. Yet again you keep these meetings secret from me,’ Anne Argento was furious.

  ‘Loyal? You’re stabbing me in the back every opportunity you’ve got,’ Clifford Bell responded angrily.

  The main entrance area of 10 Downing Street was not the ideal place for a prime minister and his deputy to conduct a slanging match, but the situation between them had become untenable.

  ‘I suggest we go into my office and discuss this in private.’ The Prime Minister tried to maintain some civility.

  ‘Don’t try and stop me having my say, and don’t tell me to respect your position,’ his deputy said.

  ‘I’d be wasting my time,’ Clifford Bell replied.

  Even Anne Argento had to admit that her violent outburst was not the behaviour of a future Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, but it was Rohan Jones who had sent her an SMS informing her that Counter Terrorism Command were with the Prime Minister.

  Rohan Jones was protecting his position. Clifford Bell, his friend, was a politician and either he would fall on his sword and declare his position open in the party room, or Anne Argento was going to take it by force. It was plain to see, and Rohan Jones did not spend his time around politicians – he had even been one in the past before being unceremoniously dumped by his electorate – to not indulge in politicking when it was to his advantage. If he lost a friend and made an ally, a future employer, even an ambassadorial position in Washington, so be it.

  Anne Argento was disgusted with herself. For a moment, she was genuinely angry, not acting for the gallery. In the relative sanctuary of the PM’s office, the heated confrontation continued.

  ‘You have the Counter Terrorism Command next door,’ she said.

  ‘Do I?’ the PM replied.

  ‘Are you denying the fact?’

  ‘The relevant fact is how my loyal deputy knows who I have here. I’m not answerable to you.’

  ‘Clifford, for crying out loud, we have an agreement that you’d invite me to any meetings, any discussion related to the current crisis.’

  ‘It’s been relatively quiet for a few weeks. Don’t you think the crisis may be nearly over?’ the Prime Minister asked.

  ‘What makes you think that? Are your get-togethers with the local influencers in the community having a result?’ Anne Argento asked sarcastically.

  ‘I believe they are. It’s clear that, if there is peace in the country, you can’t take my job. You want the bombings to continue.’

  ‘If you said that outside of this building I’d slap a writ on you so fast for slander…’

  ‘Anne, calm down. You’re the Deputy Prime Minister of this country. Continue like this and I’ll be forced to consider your position.’

  ‘Relegate me to the backbench? You just try it.’

  ‘Are you threatening me?’ the Prime Minister leapt up from his chair.

  ‘Why threaten?’ his deputy leapt up from hers as well. ‘Your position is barely viable. I’d win in an instant if your position as Prime Minister were thrown open in the party room.’

  ‘With the situation calming, do you think they’d elect a warmonger?’

  ‘The situation is only going to get worse,’ she said.

  ‘How do you know that? Did the black policeman you’re screwing tell you?’

  ‘I’m neither screwing him nor did he tell me. And besides, he’s next door. Why don’t you ask him?’

  ‘Then who, the men from statistics?’ the Prime Minister asked.

  ‘You’re criticising me for sticking my nose in,’ said Anne. ‘But you seem to have plenty of information on me. You’ve been using MI5 for your ow
n personal reasons.’

  ‘One thing you may learn one day,’ said the Prime Minister, ‘before you’re thrown out from parliament by the voters in your constituency, is that it pays to make friends, acquaintances, who one day may be able to return a favour.’

  ‘Is that what you’re doing?’ Anne Argento asked. ‘Pulling in favours, using tax-funded employees to spy on your deputy?’

  ‘I never said that,’ said the PM angrily. ‘Let’s get back to the initial matter. How did you know that I was meeting with Counter Terrorism Command? Tell me that, or are you screwing my senior adviser as well?’

  ‘How dare you make such an aspersion.’ Anne Argento was again genuinely angry.

  The solid oak door did little to dampen the sound resonating throughout the building, especially in to the room where DCI Isaac Cook and Commander Richard Goddard sat.

  ‘I know all about Rohan Jones’ visits to you, the secret messaging,’ continued the Prime Minister. ‘I know he’s trying to hedge his bets. What’s the deal? If I’m dumped he moves over to you, is that it?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ replied Anne.

  It was the first time that Clifford Bell had managed to win in an open battle with his deputy. It had felt good. It was not so good when he accused his senior adviser and former friend, Rohan Jones, of duplicity, treachery, and fraudulent behaviour. The day climaxed with his removal through the back door of 10 Downing Street.

  ***

  Senior Constable Farhan Ahmed was not dressed in the suit he had been wearing when he had been following Haji. It was now a pair of overalls, two sizes too large. Shafi had chosen the cheapest transporters he could find, and none came cheaper than ‘Rodney’s Trucks for Hire’. Operating out of an old warehouse down by the docks, to the east of the centre of London, they ran a lean operation. The trucks were old, the drivers barely competent, and the handling of the transported goods deplorable.

  Seymour Smythe, an upmarket purveyor of old paintings, had used them on purpose some years previously when, down on his luck and with no chance of selling a sixteenth-century landscape from a discredited master for the one hundred thousand pounds he wanted, he had entrusted its transportation up north to Rodney’s Trucks for Hire. In this instance, the truck company had proved totally reliable as, going too fast round a sharp turn in the road, the painting had become dislodged and crashed to the other side of the van, piercing the canvas in several places on some exposed metal tubes. As a result, Smythe pocketed one hundred thousand pounds on an insurance claim for a painting that only cost him twenty thousand and the obliging driver received five thousand and Rodney Marshall, the owner of the trucking company, fifteen thousand. Smythe had netted sixty thousand pounds clear, which he subsequently wasted on a binge of gambling, drink and cheap women down in the South of France.