Murder Without Reason (DCI Cook Thriller Series Book 5)

by Phillip Strang

  Her mind was made up. She would commit this final act before succumbing to death herself. The instruments of death were in the small handbag that she clutched under her right arm. Mavis and Len Styles – he was in full naval uniform – were consoled and pleased that the Prime Minister had arranged this for the relatives of those that had died.

  ***

  It was at the time that Sara Styles was heading up Whitehall towards Downing Street that Isaac phoned his friend, the Deputy Prime Minister.

  ‘Anne, what are your plans for today?’

  ‘You called me by my first name.’

  ‘I am calling you as a friend.’

  ‘Then, as a friend, what is it that you have called me for?’ She was both pleased to hear from him and disconcerted as to the reason for his phone call.

  ‘What are your plans for today?’ he repeated.

  ‘I’m going to the reception for the relatives of the Ambush at Downing Street.’

  ‘As a friend, I’m asking you to not go.’

  ‘Are you asking me to be a party to a terrorist action?’ she asked.

  ‘No, I’m asking you to save this country from their madness.’

  ‘Is Andrew Martin sure about this?’ She had agreed to comply. She would comply, but it still gave her great concern.

  ‘He’s one hundred per cent sure,’ said Isaac.

  ‘I must go. I must show leadership.’

  ‘Anne, then I must ask one request of you.’ Isaac saw clearly that she would not be dissuaded.

  ‘What do you require of me?’

  ‘Keep your distance from the Prime Minister at all times.’

  ‘I don’t like this,’ she said.

  ‘Neither do I, nor does Andrew Martin, but what do you want?’ Isaac asked, concerned that his friendship would be forever tainted by what he was asking her to do.

  ‘I want to save this country, you know that,’ she said.

  ‘Then we must do what we know is right, even if it is morally wrong. Either you save this country, or we’re doomed.’

  ‘I said I would rely on your judgement and act without question.’

  ‘Keep clear of the Prime Minister. Will you do that?’

  ‘Apart from a courtesy acknowledgement when I enter,’ she replied.

  ‘Are you planning to take the leadership as soon as possible?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘I’ve already formulated the plans.’

  ‘Then, today will give you the necessary ammunition to force any declaration that you want.’

  ‘Are you going to give me the name of the person to avoid?’ Anne asked.

  ‘I already have, the Prime Minister,’ Isaac replied, unsure as to whether he should mention the name of the assassin.

  ‘I mean the other person.’

  ‘Are you sure you want to know?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘If he can’t get to the Prime Minister, then the Deputy Prime Minister would be the next most likely target. I need to know.’

  ‘She,’ said Isaac. ‘It’s a she.’

  ‘Good God, you mean it’s a woman?’ Anne expressed alarm.

  ‘She’s the daughter of the Master.’

  ‘How the hell did she get into Downing Street?’

  ‘I’ve told you too much,’ Isaac said.

  ‘Tell me no more, but I must have a name. I’ve got to keep clear of her as well.’

  ‘Sara Styles,’ said Isaac. ‘She’s the widow of Sub Lieutenant Ray Styles. She’ll be there with her dead husband’s parents.’

  ‘What sort of woman can kill her husband and then come to Downing Street with his parents?’ Anne asked.

  ‘She’s a remarkable woman,’ Isaac said.

  ‘But mad. She must be mad?’ Anne replied.

  ‘Mad, devoted to the cause, who knows? Now is not the time for discussion.’

  ‘I’ll need to be polite, at least introduce myself.’

  ‘Anne, you do that briefly on your arrival and then distance yourself from her. Remember, you must act calm at all times.’

  ‘What sort of woman will I be meeting?’

  ‘You will meet a beautiful Indian woman, born in this country and no doubt dressed in a sari.’

  ‘Educated, articulate?’ Anne asked.

  ‘Educated at one of the best schools in the country. You’ll like her.’

  ‘How can I like her, when I know what she intends to do?’

  ‘Maybe I’ve told you too much,’ Isaac said.

  ***

  The two-bedroom apartment was dirty and dusty and in need of a good coat of paint. Diana – or the bitch, as Yasser Lahham referred to her – had kept it immaculate when she had shared his bed there. The Prof regarded it as a secure location to put in place his final plan and to instruct Shafi as to his part.

  ‘I’m not killing anyone for you!’ Shafi reacted angrily. He had been let out of Belmarsh, no mention of his killing of Wali Hasan, and Isaac Cook was going to ensure a cushy five years in a prison in the country for the death of the gypsy, maybe even get a pardon. No one knew of the killing of the Egyptian with the infected genitals and a rampant hard-on. He was not going to commit another murder for anyone.

  ‘Let me tell you this clearly,’ the Prof said. ‘It is for me to move the cause forward. In one year’s time, from this date, there will be an Islamic State in this country.’

  ‘There is already, isn’t there?’ Shafi queried.

  ‘What I mean is that the government in London will be forced to concede substantial parts of this country to our control.’

  ‘Why will they do that?’ Shafi asked.

  ‘They will because I will be the Master.’

  ‘What about the Master? Are you planning to take his place?’

  ‘Yes, once you kill him for me.’

  ‘I’m not killing anyone,’ said Shafi. ‘I’m a pacifist.

  ‘When the Islamic State takes control of major areas of this country, we will have our own Belmarsh, our own torturers, and you will be the first prisoner. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Khalid and Mustafa?’ Shafi asked.

  ‘What about them?’ Yasser said.

  ‘If I do this for you, won’t they come after me?’

  ‘They won’t if they’re with me.’

  ‘But aren’t they loyal to the Master?’ Shafi asked.

  ‘They are only loyal to whoever pays them the most, gives them the most people to torture.’

  ‘And that will be you?’ Shafi said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Yasser Lahham. ‘The Master has gone soft. He has allowed his bitch of a daughter to reject my proposal of marriage. A true leader of the Islamic State would never heed to the will of a woman. It is for men to command, women to obey.’

  ‘And after the Master is dead, you will take his daughter?’ Shafi asked.

  ‘No, she will be dead as well.’

  ‘When do you want me to do this?’ Shafi asked.

  ‘Today, this afternoon.’

  ‘What about Haji?’ Shafi asked.

  ‘Haji accepts the situation.’

  ‘I have no choice, do I?’ Shafi had seen the futility of the situation. He had to comply, and he had to try and contact DCI Cook. He still had to hedge his bets, ensure he was on the winning side, whatever the outcome.

  ***

  The Prime Minister was at the far end of the reception room, close to the doors that opened out onto the terrace. Anne Argento made a move towards the terrace on arriving. Her conversation was brisk and to the point. She listened to the Prime Minister’s speech, praising the valour of those who had given their lives in the service of the country. She had to admit that his speech was excellent, full of rhetoric, full of admiration for those who had perished, and full of hope for this great country, of which he was proud to be the Prime Minister.

  Not for much longer, she thought.

  It was a difficult situation for her. She genuinely liked the man, but the needs of the many outweighed the few, and the Prime Minister was definitely one of the f
ew. She circulated, a glass of a particularly good white wine in her hand, introducing herself to the assembled guests. All those at the function wore a clip-on badge with their names on, even she did, although there could not be a person in the country who would not know her on sight.

  It was with a momentary shiver, seen by no one, when Len Styles came up and introduced himself.

  ‘Our son, Ray, was a Sub-Lieutenant on the Ambush.’

  ‘It’s a great shame that we are meeting here today under these circumstances,’ Anne said.

  ‘A great shame to us all,’ replied Len Styles. ‘But we are consoled that he was serving his country and he has left us his lovely wife, Sara.’

  ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Deputy Prime Minister.’ A beautiful Indian woman, dressed in an elegant sari, as Isaac had said, stood before her with an extended hand. Anne, well-rehearsed for what she knew would be a difficult moment, acted in a manner that surprised even her. She acted calmly and with great poise.

  ‘You must miss your husband?’

  ‘Ray, yes of course. I loved him so much,’ Sara replied.

  ‘I am sorry for your loss.’ Anne instantly liked the beautiful Sara. It took her a few moments to recollect what Isaac had told her.

  ‘You must excuse me,’ she said. ‘I’m expected to circulate.’

  ‘My wife, Mavis, is not here at the present moment,’ said Len Styles. ‘I’ll introduce her to you when she comes back from the ladies.’

  ‘Please do,’ Anne Argento responded.

  ***

  ‘You should not have told her so much.’ Andrew Martin had not counted on Isaac Cook telling Anne Argento, who the assassin was.

  ‘I had to, you know that. ‘Your analysis makes it clear that Anne Argento must live. We can’t risk her.’

  ‘I know that, but she could scuttle the whole plan,’ said Andrew. ‘This is treason. We could end up in prison.’

  ‘Andrew, I’m a serving member of the police force. She had to be told.’

  Diverted by his mobile phone ringing, Isaac answered it.

  ‘They want me to kill the Master,’ Shafi said.

  ‘Why? I thought he was untouchable?’

  ‘The Prof intends to take over. He says the Master’s gone soft.’

  ‘Has he?’

  ‘How would I know? It’s something to do with the Master not forcing his daughter to marry him.’

  ‘It hardly seems a reason,’ Isaac said. ‘Let me check what we need to do here. Call you in five minutes.’

  Isaac needed to discuss the matter with Andrew.

  ‘Yasser Lahham wants Shafi to kill the Faisal Aslam.’

  ‘Is that a problem?’ Andrew said.

  ‘I don’t really see any issue,’ Isaac replied. ‘But we’re condoning murder, and we will need to give Shafi immunity from prosecution.’

  ‘I would have thought he was doing us a service? Let him do it,’ Andrew said.

  Isaac called Shafi back. ‘Are you up to this?’

  ‘Not really. I don’t like killing anyone, but the Master was the one who let Khalid and Mustafa work on me.’

  ‘I’ll make sure you are granted immunity from prosecution.’

  ‘I’m committing murder with the government’s permission?’ Shafi asked. ‘Licensed to kill, is that it?’

  ‘Yes, may even get you a medal,’ Isaac said.

  ‘If you make sure that friend of yours pins it on.’

  ‘I can arrange that. Consider it a done deal. Kill Faisal Aslam.’

  ***

  ‘Where’s Mavis?’ Sara asked of her father-in-law. ‘She’s been gone a long time.’

  ‘She went to put on some make-up. She left her lipstick at the hotel, borrowed yours. She said you wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘Oh, my God! I have to go and check on her,’ Sara reacted with alarm.

  The bathroom door was unlocked but pulled closed. It was a sight that Sara had not wanted to see. Mavis Styles was lying prostrate on the floor, the lipstick still loosely held in her right hand. The pulse was weak, the expression on her face, immobile. The eyes stared out into space, unblinking, saliva dribbling from her mouth.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ cried Sara. ‘I didn’t want this to happen. I wish I could change the past, but now it is too late.’

  Mavis Styles had been paralysed by the poison from a frog in the Amazon rainforest. Sara had killed the son and now the mother. There was only one more person and then she would experience the relief that she had desired for so long. Picking up the lipstick that had fallen onto the floor, she exited the room, breaking the bathroom door handle on her exit. She would have five minutes, at the most, to complete her task.

  ***

  The Master, Faisal Aslam, was in prayer when Shafi entered the house. Both Khalid and Mustafa were absent. Haji had ensured they would not be present, and he had encountered no resistance.

  ‘Why are you here, Shafi?’ The Master had tears in his eyes.

  ‘I have been given a task. Why are you crying?’ Shafi was not used to seeing the Master portraying signs of weakness.

  ‘My daughter is to become a martyr.’

  ‘Surely that is a time for rejoicing?’ Shafi said.

  ‘Yes, but I have shown a weakness towards her. She was, is, a lovely person who a father could only be proud of.’

  ‘Your time is over,’ Shafi said.

  ‘I know about Haji and Yasser Lahham,’ said the Master. ‘I know that they see me as weak, unworthy of the task ahead. Are you the instrument of death?’

  ‘Yes, I have been tasked with your martyrdom,’ Shafi replied.

  ‘It is not martyrdom that I desire, just the opportunity to be near my daughter. I will not resist you.’

  The knife that Yasser Lahham had given to Shafi at the apartment was long and thin. It entered Faisal Aslam cleanly on his left side, three ribs down, and penetrated his heart. Shafi stabbed him three more times, twice in the chest, once more in the heart.

  He was neither sad nor angry with what he had done. He only regretted that his attempts to distance himself from crime continued unabated. He hoped that either the Prof or Isaac Cook would protect him, regardless of which side won.

  ***

  Clifford Bell was enjoying the reception. It was good to be in the company of people who showed him the necessary respect. Even Anne Argento had excused herself, something to do with a pressing issue in her electorate.

  Sara Styles introduced herself to the Prime Minister after he left one group of relatives heading to another. The glass of beer he held in his hand was almost empty, and he was looking for another. He was a moderate drinker, but it was a relaxed environment, almost a party, and he had taken two beers. He should not have drunk more, but he thought a third would not do any harm.

  ‘I’m Sara Styles. My husband was an officer on the Ambush.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs Styles. Would you like another drink?’ the Prime Minister asked.

  ‘White wine would be fine.’

  ‘Waiter, a white wine for Mrs Styles and a beer for me,’ the Prime Minister asked the white-coated, white-gloved waiter who hovered to one side. He turned back to Sara. ‘And what have you been doing since the tragic accident?’

  ‘I spent some time in India.’

  ‘And what of the future?’ the Prime Minister asked.

  ‘I have no future. And neither do you?’ Sara had previously decided to say nothing before administering the lethal poison, but at the moment she felt the need to speak.

  ‘What do you…?’

  The Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, Clifford Bell, a good man, one-time lover of his deputy, soon to replace him, had been scratched on the back of his hand by the sharpened end of a mascara brush. The paralysis was almost instantaneous, and he collapsed to the ground.

  He was followed shortly by Sara Styles, nee Sara Aslam, the daughter of the Master, who had also scratched herself with the same brush and liberally smeared the inside of her mouth with the lipstick tha
t had killed Ray’s mother, Mavis, in the bathroom at Downing Street. All three were to die within the hour.

  Three weeks later, Anne Argento, the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, met with Isaac Cook at Chequers, the country residence since 1921 of the leader of the country. She had planned to finally seduce him the day she became leader, but there had been a war to declare, a Prime Minister to mourn, and a new and more determined Master, Yasser Lahham, to contend with.

  The End

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