The Divinities

by Parker Bilal

  ‘Tortured?’

  ‘To what end, I can’t say, obviously.’ Archie turned away to reach for his glass of single malt. Drake waved the offer away. He was feeling queasy. A steel bowl on the instrument trolley contained more cockroaches and grey worms the size of fingers, glistening black slugs.

  ‘You found all of that inside him? Where would you even get that many insects?’

  ‘Insects reproduce in a matter of days. It doesn’t take long. Just the right temperature.’

  ‘A little odd for this time of year.’

  ‘It wouldn’t take much. A boiler room for example. Plenty of those around. Introduce our friends here and away you go.’ Archie took another sip of whisky.

  ‘Could it be some form of religious ritual?’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Just a thought,’ shrugged Drake.

  ‘Sometimes I wonder about you, DS Drake. All I can say is, if it is, I’ve never heard of it.’ Archie lifted his eyebrows. ‘Of course, putting people into coffins with live insects is nothing new.’

  Drake could tell from the coroner’s tone that he had more to say. ‘Enlighten me.’

  ‘Are you familiar with the techniques developed by the CIA under their SERE programme: Survival, Evasion, Resistance & Escape?’

  ‘I’ve heard about it, nothing more than that.’

  ‘I thought as much.’ Archie heaved a heavy sigh. ‘They used it to prepare their pilots for if they ever came down behind enemy lines. Later it was used as an enhanced interrogation technique, in Central America in the 1970s, and later in Afghanistan.’

  Drake looked up from the body. ‘You’re not telling me he was tortured by the CIA?’

  ‘Good lord, no. Well, I don’t think that’s likely.’

  ‘Let’s back up here. You’re saying this man was locked in with live insects? How?’

  ‘A confined space like a box. The feet and arms, what’s left of them, show abrasions and contusions that might be consistent with someone trying to get out of a confined space. The fragments I have recovered suggest fresh pine.’ Archie indicated a specimen tray with what looked like bloody splinters in it.

  ‘The fauna would have been introduced and left to their own devices. In the right conditions they can reproduce in less than twenty-four hours.’

  ‘So, he was kept alive, in a coffin, with all those insects?’

  Archie reached for his glass. ‘I can’t think of a more hideous way to go, and I’ve seen a few in my time.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘That’s the kind of philosophical question the Met pays you for, or maybe they don’t.’ Archie frowned. ‘Which reminds me, were you not suspended?’

  ‘I mean, why torture him? Hakim was working with the killer.’

  Archie held his hands up. ‘That’s your end of things. Maybe he was a liability.’

  ‘Unless this was always the plan.’ Drake looked down at Hakim. ‘He’s trying to tell us something.’

  ‘You mean, it’s the method used that is the point?’

  ‘Hakim was a nobody. Confused. Our killer has been using him, convincing him he was part of some jihadist scheme. After that, the only purpose he served was to send another message.’

  ‘What kind of message?’

  ‘Well, first off there are the hands. Having both hands cut off is extreme, even by sharia-law standards.’

  ‘But it does tie him to Magnolia Quays.’

  ‘Yes, but why torture him?’

  Archie gazed down at the body. ‘I know this man wounded your colleague, but nobody deserves to die this way.’

  ‘Maybe that’s his point,’ Drake said, thinking aloud. ‘Guilt by complicity.’

  ‘Of course.’ Archie took a renewed look at the body. ‘We are all guilty by association. Torture of this kind was committed in our name. You think that’s his point?’

  Drake seemed not to hear him. ‘What was the cause of death?’

  ‘I’d have to complete my autopsy, but preliminary examination suggests the most likely cause of death was heart failure.’

  ‘So he was literally scared to death?’

  ‘You think that’s significant?’

  ‘Right now everything is significant.’

  ‘Given the right amount of stress you can kill anyone. I’ll know better when I get a proper look at the heart muscle. Could be wrong, but there you go. Being locked into a chest with hundreds of creepy crawlies might do that to you.’

  ‘Well, you can’t say he didn’t deserve it.’

  ‘So much for compassion.’

  Drake looked over at Archie. ‘He stabbed Kelly. It takes more than a few cockroaches to row back from that.’

  ‘Fair enough, but I wouldn’t wish that death on anyone.’ Archie poured himself another drink as Drake headed for the door. ‘By the way, what exactly is your status, I mean, if Pryce asks me if you were here?’

  ‘I think AWOL is the best description, and I was never here.’

  Upstairs in the reception area Drake approached Hakim’s mother, or tried to. He was intercepted by the agitated young man he had noticed on his way in.

  ‘When are they going to let us bury my brother?’ He was tall and aggressive, his nostrils flaring as he leaned into Drake’s face.

  ‘There are a number of formalities, legal and technical,’ Drake said calmly. ‘There’s no point in staying here. Go home and we’ll contact you when…’ He didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence.

  ‘We’re not going anywhere.’

  Drake saw the flat, bullish expression and turned to the mother. ‘Mrs Jones, there is nothing you can do by staying here.’

  She was dabbing at the tear tracks on her face with a lace handkerchief. ‘My boy,’ she whimpered. She glanced anxiously at her other son.

  ‘Why do they need to keep my brother anyway?’

  Drake turned back to face him again. ‘We’re trying to find the man who killed him. Isn’t that what you want?’

  ‘I don’t believe you. I think you’s all incompetent.’ He stepped closer, crowding Drake. ‘This is about respect. Our tradition.’

  ‘I understand that.’

  The younger woman who was consoling the mother said, ‘Lay off him, Jameel, he’s a copper.’ The news had the opposite effect of that she intended. It made him more aggressive. His look turned contemptuous.

  ‘That’s it, innit? It’s cos he was Muslim, right?’

  Drake glanced at the mother but she seemed so stricken with grief she barely registered what was going on around her.

  ‘We believe Duwayne was killed by some people he was involved with.’

  ‘That’s bullshit!’ Spittle flecked the brother’s lower lip. ‘And his name was Akbar Hakim.’

  ‘His name was Duwayne!’ the mother exploded onto her feet. ‘You hear me? Duwayne. That’s what we named him.’ But it was too much for her and she collapsed sobbing in a heap. The boy folded. He watched his mother bury her face in her handkerchief, then he went and sat beside her, quietly putting an arm around her. Drake led the sister aside.

  ‘Take them both home. It won’t do any good to your mother if your brother gets himself locked up for assaulting a police officer.’

  ‘I understand.’ She glanced back. ‘He’s just such a child sometimes. Can’t control himself.’

  ‘Were they very close?’

  ‘Daryl looked up to Duwayne something terrible. Even converted to Islam because of him. Now we have to call him Jameel.’ She rolled her eyes before examining Drake more closely. ‘I hope that doesn’t sound offensive.’

  ‘No worries. It would help to know a bit more about Duwayne’s movements these last few months. Where he worked, who his friends were, who he hung out with? He was staying at the mosque for a time, is that correct?’

  She rolled her eyes again. ‘That was at the end. He’d been getting crazier and crazier over the last few months. Nobody understood what got into him. Mum was beside herself. She finally threw him out.’

>   ‘So, before that he was doing okay?’

  ‘Well, okay . . . I mean, he was managing. He had his things, you know, his campaign against the war. He printed pamphlets, stood out on the high street bothering people. Outside the Tube station. Everyone knew him. I used to cross the street to avoid him. It was just too embarrassing.’

  ‘When did all of this change, then?’

  ‘About four months ago, something like that. He just went quiet. He got weird and dropped out, disappeared, really.’

  ‘Do you know where he was working?’

  ‘All over the place. Couldn’t keep a job down. Always thought he was too good for them. I don’t know where he got that from.’

  ‘There was a used-car place in Putney.’

  ‘That was years ago,’ she nodded. ‘He messed that one up too. It was one thing after another. He’d last a month and then not turn up, or he’d get into a fight.’

  She glanced over at her brother, then scrabbled about in her purse for a tissue. ‘Duwayne had mental-health issues. He kept saying he was going to make us all proud. At some point I stopped listening.’ She looked up at him. ‘You just wonder, don’t you, if you could have done more?’

  Drake had just reached the car when his phone started ringing. It was Wheeler.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘What’s up, sir?’ It was unusual for him to call so late.

  ‘Get yourself over to Freetown. DCI Pryce seems to have got himself into a spot of bother.’

  CHAPTER 45

  The main square was already cordoned off. People stood along the line, their faces warmed by the glow of fires. Drake spotted three cars ablaze in the access road. Two riot vans were on the main square, illuminated by the flames. They had their shields down and were trying to advance on a small group of youths wearing balaclavas and hoodies. Some had their faces covered with scarves. A flicker of flame arched up into the darkening sky to land on one of the police vans. It burst alive as it smashed, spreading a sheet of fire over the vehicle.

  ‘It’s like the fucking West Bank!’ yelled an officer on the perimeter when Drake flashed his badge and asked for DCI Pryce. He was directed to a command vehicle on the east end of the square. To get there Drake had to push his way through a crowd of terrified onlookers, residents and photographers who were busy snapping away, their faces illuminated by the flickering glow.

  The command post was a high, box-shaped vehicle. Inside, Pryce resembled a conductor who’d lost control of his orchestra. Wearing a rather silly headset, he yelled at a bank of monitors.

  ‘What happened?’ Drake asked a dazed-looking uniform standing by the door.

  ‘One of the police vehicles knocked someone down.’

  ‘Knocked who down?’

  ‘I don’t know, some kid.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘He was taken to hospital.’ The uniform shook his head. ‘Looks bad.’

  On the monitors Drake could see masked youths hurling Molotov cocktails and charging one of the riot vans that was trapped in the middle.

  ‘Get them out of there!’ Pryce was screaming. Catching sight of Drake he waved him over. ‘I need you to get out there and make yourself useful.’

  ‘How exactly do you want me to do that?’

  ‘You’re our liaison officer, right? So talk to them.’

  Drake laughed in disbelief. ‘You want me to go out and parlay with the Indians?’

  ‘Just do as you’re told, Drake!’

  Judging by the Hitler Youth haircuts, it looked as though Moss and his mates had turned out in force. To counter this the local kids had been joined by some hardcore anti-fascist groups who had definitely come prepared. Some wore crash helmets, knee pads and body armour. Others were more lightweight, in balaclavas and hoodies, bandannas across their faces, Jesse James style. They tossed Molotov cocktails and swung sledgehammers. Setting cars alight seemed to be the new thing, as they raced along streets, kindling one after the other. The police for the most part were huddled together for safety. So much for law and order.

  On the north side of the square Drake spotted a small van edging along the perimeter. It was hard to see through the moving body of people, but he knew what it was. He edged around until he could be certain. Not so much the van as the red electrocardiogram stripe along the side. The crowd surged and it vanished from sight as he was forced the other way.

  Through the chaos, Drake spotted Jango hanging at the corner of the side street behind the Alamo with a posse of his mates. They too were in battle dress. Lopsided woollen hats taped on with duct tape, what looked like a WWI steel helmet, batting gloves, baseball bats and bicycle chains.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘They set their dogs on us, innit?’ Jango pointed to the group of men clutching flags behind the more aggressive youth.

  ‘They’re just a bunch of losers.’

  ‘Your lot killed Nemo!’ The boy thrust his face toward Drake’s. ‘They’ve been fucking building up to this for weeks. Now they’ve taken one of us out, we’re going to teach them a lesson.’

  He pulled his bandanna up to cover his face and stepped out as the boys launched another assault. They were well organized, coming in on the enemy from two sides, effectively catching them in a pincer movement. Drake could do little but stand out of the way and watch.

  Molotov cocktails were being ferried forwards from some hidden factory stationed in one of the side streets. Bottles filled with petrol with rags stuffed into the necks. They flew in slow lazy arcs across the battlefield. One landed in front of a Transit van lancing a ball of flame into the air. The vehicle lumbered backwards over the uneven ground now strewn with bits of masonry and debris, before it slew to one side and lurched off the kerb with a screech of tyres. Drake could see the other mob advancing. They wore masks covering the lower half of their faces. Behind them the crowd cheered their fighters on. With their flags and DIY-painted wooden crosses they looked like crusaders on social security.

  ‘We need back-up, and fast!’ a driver was screaming, his voice coming through Drake’s hand-held radio. The radio responded with a burst of incoherent static. The local kids were dragging wheelie bins out to block the entrances to the estate. Drake saw them pouring petrol over a couple of them and setting them alight. The retreating vehicle struck one of the bins with the side of the van. Luckily they hadn’t had time to weigh them down and they bounced out of the way.

  A helicopter stuttered overhead, its searchlight washing over the scene. A kid with a catapult turned to fire up at it. It was pure anarchy. Half a dozen vehicles were in sight. Ahead of them a crowd had gathered. Up on the runways there was more movement. Drake could see kids in hoodies racing along the second floor. A lighted fuse dropped from one to explode on the ground like a star bursting. They were prepared. The sirens wailed, the rioters, men and women screamed and whooped. Dogs were barking.

  To these kids this was an opportunity. They had the world’s attention. This was their chance. And that was the tragedy of places like the Freetown estate; nobody paid any attention until they were going up in flames.

  Drake worked his way around the periphery heading towards the Alamo. It was closed, the wooden doors shut. Drake hammered on the door until it opened to reveal Doc Wyatt. He looked both ways before hauling Drake in and shutting the door behind him again.

  ‘You picked a bad time to pay a visit.’

  The lights were off and a handful of people sat in the dark. When his eyes had adjusted to the gloom, Drake could make out a woman in her fifties, a regular whose name he used to know.

  ‘I don’t care what anyone says,’ she muttered, to no one in particular. ‘There’s something special about this place. It’s not the greatest place on earth, right? But it’s special. And it’s going. It’s a fucking tragedy.’

  ‘You have to get these people out of here,’ said Drake.

  ‘Look, man,’ Doc shook his head as he bowed over the counter, his beads brushing the stained wo
od. ‘People round here just trying to get by. That’s all what it is. It’s not complicated. It’s them people across the river, politicians, money men, know what I mean?’

  The fires outside sent a wavy pattern of light and shadow across the walls.

  ‘You’re not making a lot of sense,’ said Drake.

  ‘That’s because it’s late. I had a couple of drinks. Look, your mother . . .’

  ‘Don’t bring my mother into this.’

  ‘Hey, mate. I knew her, remember? Sorry to say this, but I was still here to help her home when she collapsed on the stairs, or put her head down on one of the tables over there. Your mother, in her last years, was a part of this. She lived here. She had her problems, but everybody knew her. Some of us tried to look out for her. She earned that.’ He set his fist down gently. ‘You should have been here is all ah’m saying.’

  ‘Nice. That’s grand of you.’

  ‘Oh, fuck off. I don’t know why I bother.’

  ‘How did this happen, then?’ Drake jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

  ‘Fucked if I know. Stephen Moss and his merry band of wankers.’

  ‘The Hope and Glory mob?’

  ‘Hope and glory my arse.’ Wyatt wagged his dreads. ‘Most of them are middle-aged losers. Failed at everything else in life and now they’ve found a cause. Fighting for England.’

  ‘Is there anyone who they’ll listen to?’

  ‘Our lot?’ Wyatt looked at Drake for a long time. ‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be serious?’

  ‘Because they don’t pay you enough.’ He looked at Drake as if weighing him up. ‘Okay, why not?’ He turned and led the way across the darkened room to a gloomy corner. The opaque windows swam with clouds of light from the fires outside.

  Three men sat around a bottle of Appleton Special set in the middle of a round table. The man in the corner was the darkest skinned of them all. In his late fifties and wearing a pencil-thin moustache and a tan leather jacket with 1970s-style flap pockets and epaulettes on the shoulders. His eyes lifted as they approached.