Justice Delayed

by David Field

  ‘Know it well,’ Mike assured him. ‘It’s only a few miles from Northwood, and we sometimes took picnics out there on Sundays when the kids were little.’

  ‘Well,’ Brandon confirmed, ‘the net result of all this is that I can’t give you any direct link from that original list of witch-hangers other than the Baynton and Pockridge that you’ve already got.’

  ‘Keep trying anyway,’ Mike encouraged him, before turning to Cathy, who now had her computer open. ‘What about you, DC Norman?’

  Cathy frowned.

  ‘Ever hear the one about the curate’s egg?’

  ‘Good in parts, bad in others?’ Brandon offered.

  ‘That’s the one,’ Cathy confirmed. ‘The really interesting one was this Newcastle tom – you know, the one who was originally from here in Brampton? “Soraya”, she called herself in Newcastle, and “Jasmin Ballantyne” back home here. But even that wasn’t her real name, apparently. The whole family’s Lebanese, and her birth name was Johara Begum. Last-known local address was Unswell Green, but of course they’ve pulled all that lot down since then. I gave you all this stuff already, but her form sheet was a little more enlightening. Seems she split from her family when she went on the game - hardly surprising, of course - then got herself lifted for kicking a copper in the nuts during her arrest in a “Jews Out of Palestine” demonstration outside Cohens’ department store. She was searched, and had a high range quantity of weed in her handbag – far more than she could consume herself, apparently – then got a two month stretch for the assault, and two years concurrent for being in possession for the purposes of supply. She came out, vanished off our radar, but re-appeared on the Newcastle dockside pushing for some local Lebanese mob, and hooking as a sideline.’

  ‘Any possible link with what we’re working on?’

  ‘Well, I assume that Jeremy Giles was interested in the mutilations inflicted on her corpse, thankfully post-mortem. This was April 2002, and they pulled in every known pervert north of York until some profiler told them that it had all the hallmarks of an execution job from within her own community. The knife wounds were very specific, and very sexual in location, and from what I could bear to read, it meant that she had betrayed her people, a bit like the IRA used to knee-cap traitors.’

  ‘Presumably she’d done that once she went on the game?’

  ‘Who knows how their brains work, sir? They obviously weren’t happy with her, anyway.’

  ‘OK, thanks for all that. Print it out for me, and I’ll take it up to DI Morton, who may be interested in a street prostitute with Middle East connections. Presumably this took up all your time while I was away?’

  ‘Not quite, sir,’ Cathy announced proudly. ‘Folio P5 – the double death on Exmoor – was apparently some sort of bomb inside the car. A Mr and Mrs Pickering – John and Zeta – harmless enough, by all accounts. They owned a publishing company in Barnstaple, and were on their way to some sort of book fair in Birmingham, so it would seem. But here’s the interesting bit; they were seen by a man walking his dog in Parracombe, giving a lift to a hitch-hiker, believed to be female. The really interesting bit is that there were only two bodies in the burned-out wreck when it was found by a postal delivery driver shortly before lunchtime that day, at the side of the road near Lynton. They’d obviously decided on a very indirect route to Birmingham, which would take them along the cliff-top route via Minehead, to Bristol, and then presumably on to Birmingham. They were miles out of their way, and it’s almost as if they took that route deliberately, to pick up the hitch-hiker.’

  ‘The hitchhiker who was presumably carrying the bomb, and got the Hell out before it went off,’ Mike observed, deep in thought. ‘Do we have a better description of this hitchhiker?’

  ‘Not even the gender, as I said. Apparently the dog-walker was paying more attention to another, stray, dog which was getting too friendly with his terrier. All he could say was that she – or possibly he – was small and slim, and almost entirely obscured by a blue anorak that was way too big for them. It was raining hard at the time, apparently.’

  ‘When was this, again?’

  Cathy looked up at her screen.

  ‘2005 – March.’

  ‘Difficult to see why it attracted Jeremy Giles’s interest, all the same.’

  ‘That’s what I thought, sir. Do you want me to push this one a bit harder? Only I was going to get stuck into that Chesterfield one from 2009. A bit closer to home, and more recent, so it might give us something.’

  ‘Yeah, OK, do that,’ Mike confirmed. ‘I’m going upstairs to see DI Morton – if I’m not back down by morning tea, give me a “hoy” on her number.’

  He took the lift, and studied the Lancaster names on the list as he went up. They all looked vaguely like something out of a bad spy novel set during the Desert Wars, and it was probably all a red herring, he had convinced himself as he tapped gently on Van’s open office door and smiled as she looked up from the papers she’d been peering over with her visitor, who looked to Mike’s untutored eye as if he might be her brother. They both certainly looked Indian Sub-Continent, but who could tell these days?

  ‘Mike,’ she greeted him warmly as she beckoned him in, ‘Meet Mani Dhaliwal. He’s a profiler with M13 – you know, the department that requested Delilah? – and he’s here for a few days looking into a few “possibles” that Jill Bradbury dug out of the woodwork.’

  The two men shook hands rather formally, and Van beckoned them both into adjoining chairs on the other side of her paper-strewn desk.

  ‘It seems to be my morning for profilers,’ Mike said as he handed Mani the Newcastle file. ‘This was meant principally for Van, since the girl in question operated as a street prostitute here in Brampton before she transferred her business to Newcastle, where she was murdered. According to the profiler up there, her death was a formal execution job by her own people, and I warn you both up front that the details are not very nice.’

  Mani read the front sheet over quickly, then switched his attention briefly to the accompanying post-mortem report before wincing, and flicking back to the front sheet.

  ‘“Johara” is Arab, probably Lebanese or Syrian. Could be either, although “Begum” suggests Lebanese. Almost certainly Moslem these days, anyway. May I keep this report?’

  ‘Of course,’ Mike replied. ‘I’ll have a copy e-mailed up to you, Van,’ he added, before turning back to Mani.

  ‘Since you’re here anyway, could I ask you to take a look at this list of names? I got them from a school in Lancaster, and I was told that the schoolboys whose names they are had some sort of club operating within the school itself. It may have cost the teacher who broke it up her life.’

  Mani looked down at the list and smiled.

  ‘No doubt about this list. There are more “Mohameds” and “Islams” in this than a Beirut telephone directory. What you appear to have here is the roll-call in a Moslem youth group of some sort. Could they have been Jehadists?’

  ‘Six formers, or so I was led to believe,’ Mike advised him. ‘Senior boys, anyway. Do you want a copy?’

  ‘May as well, although forget about connecting any family groups together. Muslims don’t name their children for the family, but for the personal characteristics or religious fervour which they hope they will demonstrate.’

  ‘Hence the prevalence of “Mohamed”?’ Mike enquired.

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘What about “Jihad”?’

  Mani smiled.

  ‘Think yourself fortunate that you only deal with civilian crime here in Brampton,’ he said. ‘The word “jihad” translates loosely as “holy war”, and it has accounted for millions of deaths down through the centuries. We believe that one has been called to coincide with the EU Summit, which is why my department has sent me up here, and why we are interested in all Muslims of recent origin in Brampton.’

  ‘I believe they go in for car bombings?’

  ‘Bombings of all descriptions, but ye
s, driving an explosive-packed car into a crowded street, then detonating it, is a well established practice.’

  ‘I was thinking more of planting a bomb inside the car of an unsuspecting motorist, then getting out in a hurry,’ Mike advised him. ‘I have another file downstairs which may have been one of those.’

  ‘Certainly, it could have been a form of training exercise – or a proof of so-called courage on the part of the bomber. If you pass the file to Van, I’ll be happy to look at it for you, then let you know. But now, if you excuse me, I have to leave for another meeting.’

  ‘Give me that list, and I’ll get Sonia to copy it for Mani,’ Van asked Mike as Mani got up from his chair. ‘Mani, thank you as always for taking time to meet with me. It was great kripa.’

  ‘Alvida,’ Mani replied with a formal bow and the traditional namaskara before backing out of the office. Mike stood and watched in bemused silence, then sat down again.

  ‘It must be like being back at home, working with Mani,’ he said. ‘I take it he’s Indian?’

  ‘Punjabi - or at least his family were. Mani’s from West London, originally, and university educated in Warwick. He’s here to help me find the “sleepers” ahead of the EU Summit.’

  ‘From what you were saying, the scent’s gone a bit cold in that direction.’

  ‘It certainly has. Mani was just telling me that most of the “chatter” they’re intercepting is all about the group coming together, and the “soldiers” receiving their final instructions, but none of the likely girls we have under surveillance seems to have changed their work pattern, or shown any other sign of preparing for the big day. How are you going with that journalist murder enquiry?’

  ‘Absolutely nowhere. My first “take” was that it had to do with the murder of that witch five centuries ago – you know, the one who was supposed to be buried in Cavendish Place? I’ve spent a lot of time and constabulary resources on that, and there have certainly been a lot of dodgy deaths which might be “payback” against the descendants of those responsible, but some of the pieces don’t fit.’

  ‘I was just thinking, while you were talking to Mani just then, how your enquiry looks more like mine. A dead prostitute with possible Moslem links, a car bombing that may have been a training exercise for something bigger, and a list of young zealots with Islamic names. How sure are you about this witch connection? Excuse me a moment.’

  The phone on her desk was buzzing quietly with the single ring-tone that indicated an internal call, and Van smiled indulgently, then replied.

  ‘Thanks, I’ll let him know.’ Then she grinned back at Mike with a raised eyebrow.

  ‘DC Norman says it’s time for your yoghurt.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  It was rush hour in the Dining Hall as Cathy Norman waved Mike over to the table next to the window. Alongside her was Geoff Keating, and across the table, in the empty space next to Dave Petrie and his bacon sandwiches, was a pot of peach yoghurt and a plastic spoon. Mike took a two pound coin from his pocket and placed it on the table in front of Cathy with a smile of thanks, before emptying the sugar packet into the plastic container of coffee he’d brought with him. Then he sat down and sighed.

  ‘I don’t suppose we have any stunning breakthroughs since the last time we talked an hour ago?’ he enquired.

  Geoff shook his head, and Cathy looked expectantly across at Dave Petrie, maintaining the unspoken protocols. Dave hastily chewed his mouthful of bacon sandwich, then swallowed it before replying.

  ‘That list of schoolboy names you dumped on me read like something out of “Tales of the Arabian Nights”, but there are a couple there of interest. I’ve written you a few notes, here...’

  He took a somewhat crumpled piece of note paper from his shirt pocket and dropped it onto the table in front of Mike, who squinted at it with a frown.

  ‘When I was at school, we were taught to write legibly. I assume your school specialised in golf?’

  ‘It’s not my fault if all the names are woggy,’ Dave complained. ‘It’s almost impossible to do any meaningful sort of record check with names like that, given that half the Criminal Kebabs in the country seem to use either identical names, or ones that are so similar you’d think they bought them from a machine on a railway platform. However, “Ali Ahmet” looks promising, as you can see.’

  Mike concentrated on the scrawled note, then his eyebrows rose in surprise.

  ‘How did he finish up in Bristol?’

  ‘How do I know?’ Dave replied grumpily. ‘Took the train, presumably, although as you can see, he prefers cars. Other people’s, mainly.’

  ‘And this “Imran El Hashem”? What’s special about him?’

  ‘He’s on our radar down here. Public order stuff, mainly, although interestingly enough he got his collar felt on the same demo as your Arab tom - “Jasmin” something or other, at least according to Cathy’s info.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Cathy confirmed as she stirred her coffee vigorously, in order to mix the last of the froth in with the actual coffee, ‘he got fifty hours of community service.’

  ‘The best service he could give this community is to move out of it,’ Dave muttered as he pushed his plate away.

  ‘How do you know he’s still here?’ Mike asked.

  ‘We don’t, but I’ve got uniform checking out his last known address – discreetly of course.’

  ‘OK,’ Mike asked, ‘anyone got anything else?’

  ‘I got stuck into that Chesterfield file, sir,’ Cathy responded. ‘Folio P3. A bloke named “Charles Renshaw”, aged 28, single but engaged, a railway worker from Clay Cross. Found during the night shift on the “up” main line. At least, most of him. The rest was spread across the “down” line. Seems he chose a wholly inappropriate place to have a kip during his meal break. Down as a suicide, but there was something else I thought was a bit interesting.’

  She paused for effect, and as all eyes turned to her, Mike growled back.

  ‘Save the dramatic pauses for the annual concert, DC Norman. Just tell us what else you found out.’

  ‘Well, once I had his name, I ran it through the PNC. There were several “Charles Renshaws” in there, but only one from Clay Cross, apparently. And he was a witness – or at least, he filed a “suspicious activity” complaint. A week before he allegedly committed suicide.’

  ‘What sort of “suspicious activity”, exactly?’ Mike enquired, suddenly more alert.

  ‘Seems that in his spare time he was an NCO in the Territorials, and he’d been up to some place or other on the Derbyshire moors to reconnoitre a site for a forthcoming exercise. Among all the soggy peat and wild flowers, he claimed to have seen a bunch of shifty-looking “persons of Middle Eastern appearance” conducting an exercise of their own. All highly unofficial, apparently, and since these Territorial types are trained to sniff out potential terrorist activity, he reported it.’

  ‘And a week later, somebody “suicided” him?’ Dave speculated.

  ‘No shit, Sherlock,’ Mike butted in sarcastically, ‘I think we all made that connection, thanks anyway. Well done, Cathy, and the next yoghurt’s on me.’

  ‘Some of your current yoghurt still is,’ Dave replied with a smirk, nodding towards Mike’s shirt pocket. They all laughed, and Mike made a mental note not to take the piss out of Dave while others were listening.

  The man himself appeared in Mike’s office doorway half an hour later, still grinning.

  ‘You’re off the hook with formal morning dress, but still not pyjamas and slippers. A smart suit will do, so obviously not one of those you wear to work.’

  ‘How come?’ Mike asked.

  ‘Joy’s decision. We went down to a gents’ outfitters during our lunch breaks yesterday, and I tried on the full morning attire. Joy said I looked like an anorexic penguin. It’s the most I’ve seen her laugh in weeks, so that was something, I suppose.’

  Mike giggled at the mere description, then handed up the El Zarw file.


  ‘This is all getting a bit too Moslem-specific to be a coincidence, and bearing in mind, first of all your comments about Arab names, and secondly your acquired expertise in this area, run this guy’s dabs through criminal records. They’re on the personnel file that Joy gave us, for obvious reasons.’

  ‘Not a problem,’ Dave confirmed. ‘Then do you want me to take a run up to Chesterfield?’

  ‘No, you’re needed down here. By Joy, if no-one else. I thought I might send Geoff up on that one.’

  ‘And the Exmoor matter?’

  ‘Leave that one to me. Time I reminded Alison that the job comes with benefits.’

  ‘Cathy?’

  ‘Good point.’ Mike reached across his desk and picked up the P6 and P7 files.

  ‘Get her started on these two,’ he instructed Dave. ‘A shooting in some place in Scotland, and a near riot in Swansea.’

  ‘Do you want me to keep Brandon’s head in the history of West Shire Wood?’

  ‘May as well – I haven’t given up that line of enquiry yet, although it’s looking less promising. At the same time, you might want to sound him out on Arab family histories.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘When’s your mid-semester break?’ Mike enquired of the back of Alison’s head from his chair in front of the fireplace.

  ‘As soon as I finish grading these particularly depressing assignments,’ Alison muttered back from the table without even putting down her red pen or looking round. ‘Why, are you contemplating a second honeymoon?’

  ‘I thought we did that in Oxford,’ Mike replied, grinning at the memory. ‘This time I thought we might go to Exmoor.’

  Alison put her pen down, and half turned from the table to look at him.

  ‘Never let it be said that you don’t know how to show a girl a good time, but Exmoor? During the worst July weather in living memory? Or do I rightly surmise that it’s work-related?’

  ‘You rightly surmise,’ Mike confirmed. ‘Lynton, to be precise.’

  ‘Isn’t that near Lynmouth?’