Murder Without Reason (DCI Cook Thriller Series Book 5)

by Phillip Strang

  ‘Aren’t they aware of Anne Argento and her toughness to resolve the situation?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘They’re no doubt aware, but their arrogance fails to believe that a woman would be able to act against them as well as a man. They’ve devalued her importance.’

  ‘Assuming I agreed, what do you want from me?’ Isaac was willing to concede the point, to give it careful consideration.

  ‘I want you to make sure that Anne Argento does not attend the reception at Downing Street for the relatives of the Ambush’s crew.’

  ‘Is that when it will happen?’

  ‘It’s almost certain.’

  ‘What makes you so certain?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘Because I know who will be the assassin.’

  ‘Hell! How do you know that?’

  ‘It’s through pure analysis and the assistance of one of your colleagues.’

  ‘How many people are going to die?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘Two, maybe three.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Firstly,’ Andrew explained, ‘it will be impossible to take in explosives. Secondly, the Islamic State wishes to make a statement.’

  ‘What kind of statement?’

  ‘That no one is safe, from the highest to the lowest in the country. And that no location, however secure, is excluded.’

  ‘They could get into Buckingham Palace?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘In time, they could get into anywhere, assassinate anyone.’

  ‘I’ll take the two days to consider as I promised.’ It was too much for Isaac to digest, and to decide whether he would accede to Andrew’s request.

  ‘Maybe run it past your friend. Make sure you hypothesise, though. Don’t give any details.’

  ‘Which friend is that?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘You know to whom I’m referring.’

  Isaac understood.

  ***

  Yasser Lahham considered his options. His worth to the Islamic State was proven, yet he remained purely as their technical expert. It was evident to him that the fight needed to be taken to another level. It was not another bombing that was required. It was a complete breakdown in the infrastructure that controlled the country. His admiration for the Master had turned to derision after he had failed to secure his daughter, the beautiful Sara, for him as a wife.

  Women are chattel in the Islamic State, he thought. Their opinion on matters of marriage is of no concern. It is for the father to tell the female and for the female to obey.

  Lahham saw that the Master was weak when he needed to be strong, violent when he needed to be subtle, soft-minded with his daughter when he should have commanded. He was determined to ensure that the Master was replaced by another; someone more capable of taking the fight forward.

  Yasser Lahham needed allies, but who could he trust. There was Haji, but he was a devious old man who would run to the Master. There were Khalid and Mustafa, but they were basically thugs who revelled in the violence, not the philosophy, of the cause, and then there was Shafi, but he had been conditioned to serve the Master and the Islamic State after some persuasive tactics by the thugs.

  He knew what he wanted, yet he still did not have the solution. And there was still that bitch, Diana, who had run out on him. He would have her back and then she would be subservient to his every need, or else he would beat some sense into her. It was not violence he condoned but, in her case, it was justifiable.

  ‘Shafi, what the Master had done to you was not right,’ Yasser Lahham said in the relative sanctity of a small Egyptian restaurant located close to Canary Wharf.

  ‘It was for my benefit.’ Shafi was still strongly conditioned, but the urge for a woman troubled him.

  ‘I would not impose such strong discipline on you as long as you served the Islamic State.’

  ‘Thank you, Prof.’

  ‘Here I am not the Prof.’ There was bitterness in Yasser Lahham’s voice. ‘Here I am just the person who fixes the computers, hacks the networks. In Belmarsh, I had respect, here I have none.’

  ‘You don’t want to go back?’ Shafi was confused by Yasser’s conversation.

  ‘No, of course not, but I want to be respected.’

  ‘You have my respect,’ said Shafi. ‘You’re a genius, everyone knows that.’

  ‘They may know it, but it does not come with the respect that I require. Will you support me?’

  ‘Support you in what?’ Shafi asked.

  ‘If I gained some more importance around here.’

  ‘Yes, why not?’

  It seemed clear to Lahham that he needed to weaken the conditioning of Shafi. He would need to defuse the hold the Master had over Shafi. It would need a woman.

  Edgware Road was a location where Shafi had always felt comfortable. It was neither attractive nor desirable and was largely avoided by large sections of Londoners as a place full of extremists, undesirables, drug dealers, and women of ill-repute. It was here that Yasser Lahham brought Shafi one Saturday afternoon. It was here that a Ukrainian tart laid Shafi. It was here that the first break in Shafi’s conditioning appeared.

  ‘That was great.’ Shafi smiled at the conclusion of his amorous adventure.

  ‘Remember, it’s only because we were fellow inmates in Belmarsh. Don’t let the Master know. And remember to take that smirk off your face.’

  ‘Prof, don’t worry about me. I’ll not let on.’

  Chapter 2 5

  The Crooked Billet pub, two streets from Wimbledon Common, was located in Anne Argento’s electorate. Bob Clarke had been the publican for the last fifteen years and the Deputy Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, requesting a private room at the back of the building, neither concerned nor gave him any reason for curiosity.

  The sight of a tall, good-looking black man entering the room made him question for a moment the reason as to why she was meeting him alone, but the publican’s discretion was assured. He had great respect for the local Member of Parliament and regarded her as a friend. Never would he indulge in idle gossip at her expense.

  ‘Isaac, it’s good to see you again.’

  ‘Deputy Prime Minister, it’s always good to see you. You know that?’

  ‘Call me Anne. We are alone. Remember our agreement?’

  ‘Yes, Anne,’ Isaac acquiesced.

  ‘You set up our meeting here today. What do you want to talk about?’ she asked.

  ‘I have a dilemma.’ Isaac gingerly approached the subject.

  ‘What sort of a dilemma?’

  ‘It’s a conflict between my duty as a policeman and my responsibility as a citizen of this country.’

  ‘Can there be a conflict?’ she asked.

  ‘In this case, I believe there is.’

  ‘Do you want my advice as a politician or as a friend?’

  ‘As a friend, you can be impartial. As a politician, you may be drawn between two loyalties.’

  ‘This sounds involved. Let’s order some food and drinks and then you can tell me as a friend.’

  ‘Fine, but you will need to be more circumspect when you answer as a politician,’ he replied.

  Anne ordered the sea bass, Isaac, the grilled sirloin. As well as a bottle of Pinot Noir, Domaine Le Grange Le Haut, France, 2013. Two more bottles would be enjoyed before the evening concluded.

  ‘There is an event occurring in the near future that will polarise this country.’ Isaac sipped on his wine as he addressed the reason for meeting the Deputy Prime Minister.

  ‘What sort of event?’ she asked.

  ‘If I prevent this, then the polarisation will not occur. The inevitable outcome will be detrimental to this country.’

  ‘How can upholding the law be the wrong action?’ she lowered her voice, almost to a whisper. ‘I’m assuming this is related to the Islamic State?’

  ‘Yes, I must let them succeed.’

  ‘Casualties? How many casualties are we talking about here?’ she asked.

  ‘It should only be one,’ he replie
d.

  ‘But you are not sure?’

  ‘Not totally, but that’s where the analysis is heading.’

  ‘Vane and Martin?’ Anne asked.

  ‘Yes, at least it is from Andrew Martin. Frederick Vane was killed the other day.’

  ‘Yes, I forgot,’ Anne replied.

  ‘They’ve been remarkably accurate before. There’s no reason to believe they are not this time, especially as Andrew Martin knows who the assassin is.’

  ‘He told you?’ she asked.

  ‘No, I didn’t ask.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I need to decide on a course of action first. If I have a name, then I’ll be obliged to put that person under surveillance, maybe bring them in.’

  ‘Will Andrew Martin give you the name, the details if you ask?’

  ‘He said for me to give him my answer in two days. He said he would abide by my decision.’

  ‘As a friend, I would say follow what you think is right,’ Anne said.

  ‘And as a politician?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘I would say the good of the nation overrides the safety of one person, although officially I would deny such a statement.’

  ‘I’ve spoken in a roundabout manner without being too precise. You’ve not asked for details.’

  ‘Isaac, nor will I. You must do what is best for the country. The Islamic State is too well-developed, too influential in the destruction of this nation. If Andrew Martin’s analysis is correct, and you both believe that you must act in a certain manner, then do so.’

  ‘And when I ask you, Anne, to not go somewhere, you will take my advice?’

  ‘Isaac, I trust you implicitly.’

  ‘Thank you, Prime Minister.’

  ‘Not yet, at least.’

  ‘It soon will be?’ Isaac said.

  ‘Is that Andrew Martin’s analysis again?’

  ‘No, my personal belief,’ Isaac said.

  ‘And mine too,’ she said. ‘And you’re still my celebratory reward.’

  ‘I’ll not be able to refuse a directive from the Prime Minister, will I?’ Isaac laughed as he relaxed at a positive response that would allow him to make the only decision possible.

  ‘Not unless you want to end up in the Tower of London.’ She smiled as she kissed him.

  ***

  Clifford Bell had seen the figures. His approval rating had shot up ten points. Questioned by the media about his handling of the terrorist situation in the country, he would proudly raise his increased popularity as an indication that the people of the United Kingdom were behind him and that they understood that his steady-as-you-go approach was yielding results.

  It was an old politician’s ploy – acclaim the ratings when they were in your favour, ridicule them when they were not. His approval ratings were not as a result of him, but the British voting public supporting someone when his place of work, the Houses of Parliament, had been attacked. The police were also noting a higher appreciation from the general public after the attack at New Scotland Yard, while the Church was reporting higher church attendances throughout the country after its brush with the Islamic State.

  Shannon Entwhistle, a numbers man from the Prime Minister’s previous election winning team, was now his principal adviser. Even Clifford Bell would admit that he was not as good as Rohan Jones, but Entwhistle spoke the words the PM wanted to hear and gave him the loyalty he required.

  The new adviser had a history of taking on desperate members of the party facing electoral defeat and easing them through to a win in a by-election when their case had seen hopeless. He was not averse to digging up the dirt on any candidate who showed the promise of unseating the person he was supporting. It was never an open criticism, a defined statement. It was subtle, whispered in the ear of a sympathetic member of the media and then loosely mentioned as an aspersion in the newspapers and on the television.

  ‘Prime Minister, if you want to remove your deputy, shore up your position, then let me do my job,’ Entwhistle said in the calm of the Prime Minister’s private office at Downing Street.

  ‘Are you sure you can do this without it backfiring in my direction?’ The Prime Minister was not averse to his new adviser’s suggestion. He just didn’t want the mud coming back to stick on him.

  ‘They’ll never know where the comments came from. And you’ve got to admit, she’s an easy person to throw mud at.’

  ‘If you’re referring to her and the numerous men…’

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m referring to.’

  ‘But the electorate knows all about that.’

  ‘Sure they do, and they take no notice because she’s seen as competent and tough, able to beat the men at their own game in the bear pit of parliament.’

  ‘That’s what I mean,’ said the Prime Minister. ‘Look how she deals with that obnoxious Leader of the Opposition, Bakewell.’ He had to admit she could keep the Opposition leader under control, whereas he could not.

  ‘And you get pushed around by him.’ Entwhistle overstepped the mark.

  ‘Be careful of what you’re saying,’ said Clifford Bell sharply. ‘You’re no Rohan Jones. He was an old friend till he jumped ships.’

  ‘My apologies, Prime Minister, but that’s how it’s reported.’

  ‘I know, but what do you have on my loyal deputy?’

  ‘Loyal in inverted commas, you mean?’ Entwhistle replied.

  ‘That’s exactly what I mean.’

  ‘What if I told you she was involved with someone from Counter Terrorism Command?’

  ‘Apart from the fact that Isaac Cook’s ten years younger, where’s the problem?’

  ‘It’s twelve years.’ Entwhistle was determined to make his point.

  ‘They’re both single, over the age of twenty-one,’ the Prime Minister said.

  ‘I agree, but we have the Deputy Prime Minister with privileged information, messing around with a younger man.’

  ‘Are you intimating that they’re sharing information as well as a bed?’ the Prime Minister asked.

  ‘There’s no bed involved, not as of yet.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘It’s my business to know. If you want to destabilise her, weaken her position in the party, lower her approval ratings, you just need to bring into question her propriety, her subterfuge, her black lover.’

  ‘That sounds racist.’

  ‘Prime Minister, do you want to win at the next party meeting, when you throw your position open?’

  ‘I’ve not stated that I will throw it open. I only said it to keep the wolves at bay.’

  ‘You will if you know you’ve got the numbers to win,’ Entwhistle said.

  ‘And you can guarantee it?’

  ‘It’s what I do.’

  ‘Then do what you must, but never make any of it attributable to me.’ Clifford Bell realised that Shannon Entwhistle may not be a Rohan Jones, but he was ideal for what was required.

  ***

  Haji, the former intelligence officer with the Pakistan Army, continued to portray the appearance of a benign elderly citizen of the Asian community. His visit to the Styles’ family home gave no cause for concern.

  ‘Of course your uncle is welcome.’ Mavis Styles was pleased to see a relative of Sara’s at last.

  ‘You are too kind,’ Haji, now Uncle Fraz, said as he sat in the front room of the Styles’ home.

  ‘You must stay here. We have room, and it is good for Sara.’

  For three days, Haji stayed in the comfortable room given to him. It was in those three days that he spent some time with Sara Styles, nee Sara Shenoy, nee Sara Aslam.

  ‘Sara, this is the instrument of martyrdom,’ Haji confided in the relative security of a café, down by the beach close to the house.

  ‘Haji, I do this for the cause,’ she replied.

  ‘Yes, your father explained, but you must not blame yourself for what you did. It was for your father and for the Islamic State. Don’t you realise this?�
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  ‘Yes, but it does not heal the hurt in my heart that I feel.’

  ‘You should have accepted Yasser Lahham as your father requested.’

  ‘He told you that?’ she asked.

  ‘Your father tells me everything.’

  ‘He told you that I loved Ray?’

  ‘He did, but in time you would have learnt to love Yasser.’

  ‘Tell me what I must do.’ Sara did not want further discussion on the matter. ‘Is that what I must use?’ She indicated to the small makeup bag that Haji had placed on the table.

  ‘It contains some lipstick smeared with the poison, and some mascara applicators,’ said Haji. ‘The blue handled ones are safe, the pink are not.’

  ‘And what am I meant to do with them?’

  ‘Once you are close enough to the Prime Minister, you are to stab or scratch him with the pink applicators. They have been sharpened on the tips. It is important that you aim to scratch the skin. The back of his hand is ideal when he goes to shake yours.’

  ‘The lipstick? You said it was poisoned as well.’

  ‘Aim to put it in his mouth if you can.’

  ‘Is this what I must do for myself?’ she asked.

  ‘If you are determined, then you may just put the lipstick in your mouth and swallow as much as you can.’

  ‘Haji, I am determined. I will complete my task.’

  ‘Then Allah be with you, my child. He will forgive you for what you must do.’

  ‘He may forgive me, but I can never forgive myself.’

  ‘You should have accepted Yasser. He would have made you happy. We could always have found someone else to deal with the Prime Minister.’

  ‘There is no one else who can get this close.’

  ‘Yes, you are right.’ Haji accepted that Sara had spoken the truth.

  ***

  Anne Argento was an easy target for someone as devious as Shannon Entwhistle. It was he who had turned the result around for a by-election in the north of England by creating a rumour that the clear winner, according to the polls, was an advocate of fox hunting, when basically all he enjoyed was riding across the downs of a weekend. It was Entwhistle who had managed to portray the sitting member in the Lake District to the north in Cumbria as being soft on the issue of gay marriage. The electorate had a significant number of Wesleyans, and their traditional values did not align with a member of parliament who was in favour of gay marriage. He had inadvertently shaken the hands of two newly-married gay men, never expressed an opinion on whether he approved or not. It had been close, but the member had been dumped at the next general election. In both cases, Entwhistle’s man had been elected.