by Parker Bilal
Ray’s first impulse had been to laugh. ‘Oh, wait, you mean there are people out there who don’t think the same way as us?’
‘This is serious.’
‘I don’t disagree. What do you want me to do?’
Mason was a little pissed off at her attitude. He took his job seriously. Also, he took himself too seriously to enjoy being the object of ridicule. Understandable really, but unavoidable.
‘We want to tackle the issue head on. The idea comes from inside the MoD. We want to debrief the troublemakers, talk to them, try to find out how to prepare soldiers in future.’
‘Why not just teach them to show a little respect for people who don’t look like them?’
‘It’s not as simple as that.’
‘I’ll bet it isn’t.’
‘Don’t make me regret asking you in on this.’
It was a job. It paid well and she was curious herself to hear what they had to say for themselves.
Ray had vivid memories of the trip out there. A regular airline flight to Amman in Jordan and from there a military transport C130 to Baghdad. She was outfitted with flak jacket and helmet, standard-issue military clothing so that she didn’t stand out. Right. It was like painting a target on your back. She spoke Arabic and her appearance meant she could pass for a local. Now she knew what it was like to look and feel like one of the enemy.
The first round of interviews took place on a military base. An office was set up for her and she was given a list of the men and women who had been involved in what were termed ‘incidents’. They had been taken off active duty. They should have been shipped home, but nobody wanted to do that until they knew what they were dealing with. Her brief was to prepare profiles, to try to create a framework into which these people fitted, and to extrapolate from that where and why they had deviated. And how they could be expected to behave in the future.
It wasn’t easy. Time was a factor. There were security restrictions and logistical constraints that didn’t help. A number of the servicemen and women she saw were referred to further counselling for PTSD. That wasn’t her problem. Her job was to understand where the impulse came to breach the rules of engagement.
Overall, and despite the limitations imposed on her, Ray found herself gravitating towards the conclusion that what these men, and the vast majority were men, actually suffered from was a crisis of faith. Understandable. They had shipped out to Iraq believing they were part of a noble project. There to bring liberation, peace and stability to the country. It came as a shock to discover that a sizeable portion of the local population viewed them less as saviours and more as foreign invaders.
She lifted her gaze to the lights coming on over West London. Remembering that time now made her think of Drake and what his experience must have been like. She wondered if it was doubts about his mission, or about his role, that had made him opt for the military police. Perhaps that was a way of compensating for feelings of guilt.
On her return home, Ray continued to see some of those servicemen as patients. They formed group sessions and she would come and listen. In time, many fell away. Now, with the connection made to Iraq, she felt she needed to go back to that time, to revisit those cases. If only to try to understand if there was something she had missed.
Ray loaded the boxes onto a trolley, locked up the unit again and dragged the trolley to the lift. When she got downstairs she loaded them into the car. Julius’s old Audi still had its uses. As she drove back across town she tuned the radio into a phone-in where, once again, they were discussing the murders. Magnolia Quays had become a talking point. It was on everybody’s mind. One caller was ranting about a cover-up, another waffled on about stoning people in Saudi Arabia and why one prince or another was always over there smiling and shaking hands with them, and now they wanted to do it here. It was the usual blend of fear and ignorance wrapped in a layer of outrage. Ray reached over and snapped the radio off. She’d heard enough.
CHAPTER 38
Wheeler’s call came in as Drake sat down with Lenny Bryson. An investigative journalist. Old school. He’d made his name running in-depth stories on defence issues; Trident missiles, fishy arms deals and politicians who thought they were above the law. He had contacts in some very dark nooks and crannies in Whitehall. Staring at his phone, Drake debated whether to answer and decided there was no point in further aggravating Wheeler.
‘I’d better take this,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘Sir?’
‘Do you mind telling me why you insist on making my life difficult? I’ve just had a call from the commissioner who in turn was chewed out by Howard Thwaite.’
‘Is that a problem, sir?’
A long whistle sounded down the line that Drake realized was an exasperated sigh. ‘The problem, Cal, is that Thwaite is not happy with the manner in which he is being treated. He is convinced that he is being victimized by an officer of the law who has some kind of personal grudge against him.’
‘I have no idea where he might have got that idea from.’
‘I told you to go easy on him. What exactly did you say to him?’
‘We were there on Mr Thwaite’s invitation. We were enquiring about the details of his wife’s abduction in Iraq.’
‘Then why is he saying that you are sticking your nose into his business affairs?’
‘Interesting,’ said Drake. ‘I asked about his backers.’
‘What does that have to do with his wife being murdered?’
‘I’m not sure. The point is that we’re looking for motive. We can’t rule out the fact that this bizarre, theatrical set-up was some kind of distraction. Thwaite’s company is a fairly hefty enterprise but on rocky ground financially speaking.’ Cal glanced over at Lenny, who was making his way back from the bar.
‘Where are you exactly? Sounds like a pub.’
‘Victoria. It’s busy.’
‘Well, we shouldn’t be discussing these things in public. Come into my office tomorrow.’
‘Right, sir.’
There was a long pause. ‘I don’t have to tell you that you are not in a good position right now, Cal. You don’t have a lot of rope to play with. Am I clear?’
‘Perfectly, sir.’
‘I don’t want to hear anything more about this and next time you see Mr Thwaite you might consider an apology.’
‘I’ll work on it, sir.’
‘You do that. And the same applies to DCI Pryce.’
‘An apology?’
‘Whatever your opinion of the man, there are protocols. You might have been equals in the past, but that’s no longer the case. You have to show him the respect his rank deserves. It’s bad for morale.’
‘I . . .’
‘No, Cal, not another word.’
Wheeler rang off and Drake returned to his seat as Lenny sat down. A large man with a perfectly round and mostly bald head, Bryson looked the part of the overworked, dishevelled reporter. His shirt was crumpled and had sweat marks under the armpits. Cal had explained the situation to Lenny over the telephone earlier.
Now Lenny took a long draught from his beer and licked his lips. ‘So you’re thinking what, some kind of revenge on Thwaite?’
‘Could be,’ conceded Drake. ‘Could be something else entirely.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning we don’t know, and neither do you, by the way, until I give the word.’
‘No worries there.’ Cal had known Lenny for years and knew he could be trusted. ‘But what possible motive could there be to kill them now?’
‘No idea.’
Bryson shrugged. ‘He could have read about it in the paper.’
‘True. But why now?’
‘There are two possibilities. Thwaite is pretty high profile, so it’s possible someone simply saw his name somewhere and made the connection. Or else, this was planned as a way of taking Thwaite down.’
‘Right,’ nodded Bryson. ‘A business rival.’
‘He’s the head of a pretty bi
g enterprise. I tried looking into his backers, but it’s not easy.’
‘Nothing is nowadays,’ said Lenny. ‘Shell companies, fronts. Deregulation is another word for obfuscation.’
‘The operation to free the hostages went wrong.’
‘Yeah, that’s what you said.’ Lenny scratched his bald pate. ‘I thought it rang a bell. I did some digging.’
The pub behind Horseferry Road was one of Bryson’s usual haunts. He was cautious about where he went, and more than a little paranoid about being overheard. Understandable, perhaps, considering the amount of time he spent in the company of spooks and hacks. He had taken up residence in a corner, far from the doors and the bar. Two phones sat on the table in front of him alongside a crumpled copy of the day’s Racing Post, now forgotten.
‘Okay, so, Iraq 2008. By then the politics had gone out of the fight. The Iraqis were dealing with the economic fallout that came in the wake of Saddam’s downfall. The middle class was badly hit. People who had been living well suddenly found it difficult to feed their families. There was a lot of resentment.’ Lenny spoke from memory. ‘Paul Bremmer, remember him? He was head of the Coalition Provisional Authority. Guess what he’s doing today?’
Drake reached for his glass. When Lenny got going you just had to step aside and let him get on with it. He loved the details.
‘He’s a ski instructor. Probably where he should have stayed. Anyway, it was his bright idea to fire everyone in the army who was a member of the Baath party. Which immediately alienated most of the officer class in the Iraqi armed forces. Created a lot of bad feeling. Later on, it created ISIS. But hey, what are you going to do when your salary has just been taken from you by some jumped-up ski instructor?’
Drake took a long sip of beer. ‘Tell me about the kidnapping.’
‘It wouldn’t have got that much attention, but the fact that renowned property developer Howard Thwaite was involved brought out all the gossip merchants. Still, even though he had a lot of pull in Whitehall, the fact that he was screwing one of the hostages wasn’t enough to bend the rules. No negotiating with terrorists, no matter who your mistress is.’ Bryson checked his phones and sat back.
‘Thwaite went private, paid for the rescue operation himself. I tried to get in touch with the team that went in, but no luck. The company changed their name from Hawkestone to DRS.’
‘Which means what exactly?’
‘Deorum Risk Strategies.’ Lenny sniffed. ‘Where do they get these names? Deorum sounds like something you stick under your armpits. They always assume we’re all morons and didn’t do Latin at school.’
‘Speak for yourself.’
Lenny set down his beer with a sigh. ‘Deorum. It means the gods or divinities. Make something sound classical and that automatically makes you classy.’ Lenny tapped his fingers on the table. His glass was empty.
‘Tell me something I don’t know.’
Drake got to his feet and went to fetch another round. The place had been quiet when he had arrived, but it was beginning to fill up as people congregated at the end of the day. He fought his way to the bar and then back out again. When he returned, Lenny snatched up his glass, thirsty and eager to talk.
‘There was a case, brought by a human-rights group. It was later dropped. Somebody got hurt on that raid. Hawkestone, as they were then, went further than they should have done.’
‘There was a third hostage,’ said Drake. ‘Janet Avery. Apparently she didn’t make it.’
‘Yes, well, that’s where it starts to get funny.’
‘Funny, as in you can’t find any details?’
‘I’m working on finding someone who was there at the time, but I have to say, so far it’s slim pickings.’ Lenny set down his glass. ‘While we’re at it, let me ask you a question for a change.’
‘Fire away.’
‘Your Greek friend, Donny Apostolis.’
‘I’d hardly call us friends.’
‘Like it or not, Cal, it’s what happens. It’s common knowledge that he holds a hand over you. You’re protected. Word is that you did him a favour by handing him Goran Malevich on a plate.’
‘So far I haven’t heard a question.’
‘Well, it’s the one everyone’s been asking since Malevich was liquidated. Did you do it?’
‘There was an enquiry.’
‘Sure, the DPS report concluded that you’d been irresponsible, going off script, running a witness on your own, not following procedure.’ Lenny paused to take a drink. ‘They concluded that you were promoted too fast, which was a nice way of saying that the Met had overdone it on the positive-discrimination score.’
‘Well, it all worked out very nicely for them,’ said Drake.
‘Sure,’ Lenny smiled. ‘You get downgraded and that’s the end of it. Everyone’s happy and the scandal goes away. Only thing is, nobody ever really got to the bottom of what happened to Goran Malevich.’
‘Why the sudden interest?’
‘Nothing sudden about it. I’ve been asking you the same question for three years.’
‘And you’re still not happy.’
‘I live in hope,’ nodded Lenny. ‘Maybe one day I’ll get to the bottom of it.’
Drake peered into his glass. ‘Sometimes I think I’ll never get out from under this thing.’
‘You were the golden boy, for a time. You got a second chance.’
‘So what do I do with it?’
‘Well, it’s obvious, innit?’ Lenny stared at Drake. ‘You have to take Donny down. Fancy another one?’
CHAPTER 39
Stewart Mason wasn’t happy. It might have been the weather, the rain coming down in waves, hitting the surface of the Thames, stirring up a dark frenzy. They stood sheltering under a tree on the Southbank. Mason wasn’t even sharing his umbrella, which Ray didn’t mind. She would have taken icy rain over close proximity any day of the week.
‘You’re telling me what, exactly?’
‘Hey, don’t shoot me, I’m just the messenger, remember?’ She held up her hands. ‘All I’m saying is that the investigation has taken a turn.’
‘A turn? It’s a little more than that, wouldn’t you say? You said they’re looking into your work in Iraq.’
‘That’s not what I’m saying. Not yet at least.’ She paused to look out at the river again. A barge floated by, sitting low in the water, like an old memory. ‘I’m saying it’s just a matter of time.’
Mason swore loudly, causing a woman who was walking her dog to jump. She sidestepped and moved swiftly away.
‘I just don’t see where all this came from.’
‘Marsha Thwaite was kidnapped ten years ago, held for ransom. She wasn’t his wife then, but Thwaite paid a private firm to secure the release of all the hostages. An outfit called Hawkestone.’
Mason stamped his feet, whether out of irritation or cold it wasn’t clear.
‘Why didn’t we know this?’
‘Well, I’m guessing somebody did know. Either they didn’t connect the dots, or they decided not to inform you.’
‘That somebody’s head is going to roll.’
‘Do what you have to do, but that’s not going to change this situation.’
Something about the tone of her voice caused Mason to turn on her. ‘I don’t see why you’re so fucking cheerful about this.’
She angled her head. ‘What makes you think I’m cheerful?’
‘If this comes back on us you’ll be caught in the blast too.’
‘That’s why we’re having this conversation, remember? That was my research. I knew there were anomalies, borderline cases where it was impossible to predict how they would develop.’
Mason reached into the pocket of his cashmere coat for an electronic cigarette and vaped away nervously for a few seconds.
‘Your work out there is classified. You debriefed those men because they showed signs of severe psychological trauma as a result of their experiences. Nobody has access to those files.’
‘I’m not asking that.’
‘What are you asking, then?’
‘I want to know if there’s anything you’re not telling me; is it possible for one of those men to have gone off the rails?’
Mason stared at her, but said nothing.
‘Come on, Stewart! There has to be a link. Two victims were held hostage in Iraq. You think that’s just coincidence?’
‘It might be a million things.’ Mason was scrabbling in the dark. ‘Where are we with your detective?’
Crane pushed a hand through her hair, discovering that it was soaked all the way through. She hadn’t even noticed.
‘Drake is no longer in charge. DCI Pryce has taken over.’
‘And where does that leave you?’
‘I thought I was getting somewhere with Drake. Pryce is a company boy.’
Mason snorted. ‘What does that mean?’
‘It means he comes up with the kind of answers they want to hear.’
‘You’re not turning into some kind of anarchist rebel, I hope, because you can’t really afford to be alienating people at this stage in your career.’
Crane could feel her hackles rising. ‘I don’t work for you any more, Stewart. Either you start treating me like an equal or we’re done.’
‘We’re never going to be equals, but I take your point.’ Mason stamped his feet again. ‘You trust this man, Drake? I thought you said he had a chequered past?’
‘He’s trying to get out from under this thing with Goran Malevich. He needs a win.’
‘Sounds like you both need a win. Motivation is one thing. It doesn’t make him innocent.’
Crane turned to look out over the river. As far as she was concerned the jury was still out on Drake, but listening now she could see what he was up against. Drake had betrayed the trust placed in him. To people like Mason, the fact that he was black only made this worse.
‘Drake thinks this is personal. It’s about revenge.’
‘The tabloids would disagree with you. I thought you were in favour of this sharia narrative?’
‘I was. There’s just something that doesn’t quite add up.’