Justice Delayed

by David Field

  ‘But at least we’ll save the Summit,’ Mani pointed out. ‘If, as I am instructed, we leave the arrests until the very last moment, using your murder investigation as the excuse, it’ll be too late for “Ummah” to organise replacements.’

  ‘Who’s “Ummah”?’ Mike asked.

  ‘Not “who”, strictly speaking,’ Mani advised him. ‘What. It means “community” in Arabic, and recently it’s been adopted to unite all the terrorists cells within Islam.’

  ‘Of course!’ Mike shouted, banging his forehead with his palm. ‘That’s what the “U” represented in the more recent murders. I took it to be a reference to Ursula Winthrop, when in fact it was simply Hadad and his sidekicks proving that they’d done what they were being paid for. Including, most recently, the removal of the fly of Jeremy Giles from their ointment.’

  ‘So what evidence do you have for the arrests?’ Van enquired. Mike held the USB up in front of him.

  ‘This belonged to the late Jeremy Giles, and cost him his life, along with an unsuspecting street punk who stole it from his corpse. Giles must have had more than one computer – perhaps one of those I-pad things that seem to be becoming part of the national dress of modern English youth – and he also used that for his more “intimate” entries, shall we call them?’

  ‘And?’ Mani prompted him.

  ‘And,’ Mike continued, ‘there’s clear evidence that he met up with Hadad and Hashem, and particularly Hashem. He kept some sort of coded diary on there, or to use his somewhat characteristically pompous term for it, a “personal organiser”. A lot of it’s coded, but I’ll bet any money that, for example, “RC” stands for “Rainbow Club”, and not “Roman Catholic”. Unfortunately my strict Methodist upbringing prevents me understanding some of the other entries, but I think you’ll find that Hashem is of the gay persuasion, or was at least posing as gay. I imagine that Giles first met up with him, shall we say “socially”, and then when he began to join up the dots regarding the contract killings, he was unwise enough to confide in Hashem, who introduced him to his big brother. I’m fairly sure that Giles could have had no idea of the darker agenda, but at the very least he was aware of the existence of “Rentathug” among the local Arab community.’

  ‘And that’s what got him killed?’ Mani enquired.

  ‘Almost certainly,’ Mike confirmed. ‘For Giles at least, AIDS was the least of the risks he was running with his chosen lifestyle. But the immediate cause of his demise – and the reason why his killers were so anxious to get hold of this USB – is obvious when you look at his happy snaps. Van, would you be so good as to put this in your computer? And a warning – it contains what our TV nannies call “adult themes and sexual references”. If you want to spare yourself the worst of them, jump to “Ali”, which is what I assume Hashem was using as an alias.’

  Several minutes, and several shocked expressions, later, Van’s face broke into a faint smile as she swung the computer monitor screen in their direction.

  ‘This one?’ she enquired. ‘Please say “yes”, because I really don’t want to have to see any more of this.’

  Mani nodded.

  ‘The older one on the left is Hassan Hadad. I don’t know the other, younger, one, but his youthful prettiness suggests that he may be Imran Hashem. Where was this photograph taken?’

  ‘Not entirely certain,’ Mike admitted, ‘but in the background there are some bar optics and a very “sus” looking barman, so I think you’ll find it was the Rainbow Club. But look at the date on the bottom – it’s the same evening that Giles was killed.’

  ‘Excellent!’ Mani enthused. ‘I can report back that we have the sword of Damocles hanging over several heads, and when the time is right we can go in and take them off the board. I’ll let you know when.’

  ‘Fine,’ Mike replied, ‘but in the meantime could you please advise me how to explain the delay to my team downstairs? I never expected to hear myself say this, but I can only hope that there’s a sudden spate of homicides to keep their minds occupied.’

  Chapter Twenty

  Mike gazed around the room in a determined attempt to divert his mind from what lay ahead. It was a clear, cold November day outside, but a murky, cloudy one on his immediate horizon. Beside him at the very select top table Alison was dabbing her lips after the excellent salmon starter, and Mike was wishing that it were tomorrow.

  The civil marriage ceremony had gone without a hitch, but then all that had been required of Mike and Alison was to stand there as silent witnesses, Mike as best man and Alison as matron of honour, or “dishonourable old maid” as Mike had dubbed her as they had been dressing for the occasion, immediately before she kneed him in the nuts, then apologised profusely as he doubled up and declared that this marked the end of their sex life.

  But the reception was another matter altogether, and once the sweets had been served, and the coffee dispensed, Mike would be on his feet, scared out of his wits and trying to escape the tightness of the new shirt and tie. He’d left Alison to organise that, and as usual she remained optimistic regarding his actual size, fondly clinging to ‘the old days’, when Mike had been much younger, and considerably slimmer.

  To distract himself, he tried to imagine what had brought together the seemingly disparate couples who were already negotiating exchanges following the delivery of the ‘herringbone’ service main course that had landed the beef in front of Alison and the untouched chicken in an act of irony against a man who was condemned to eat chicken salad almost daily in an attempt to shed the kilos.

  He already knew that the ridiculously tall, slim, long fair-haired beauty sitting next to Geoff Keating was Dave’s daughter Nicola, in her final year at school and looking as if she was in her second year of catwalk modelling. She had accepted the invitation, but her brother had refused out of loyalty to his disloyal mother, and Nicola had required a partner. Geoff had been a little reluctant to admit that he had no partner of his own until Dave had e-mailed him a recent photograph of Nicola in holiday mode on a Spanish beach, then suddenly Geoff had remembered that he was unencumbered.

  Cathy Norman was here too, with a partner who looked as if, in a few more years, he would come to resemble her father, but who even now looked unnervingly like a younger version of Mike. Then there was Sonia Kelman, and the man-mountain with the shaggy black hair who looked like an all-in wrestler, but was allegedly her brother. Maggie Gillies and Brandon Tait were here too, looking like the parents of the bride, but seemingly happy to blend into the landscape as they made a full frontal attack on the free wines at their table.

  As for the bride, she looked very pale but very happy after the ordeal of the past few weeks. She had successfully survived the surgery, but it would require several years, and several nervous return trips to the specialist, to confirm that they had ‘got it all’. She had been advised that she was medically fit for the wedding itself, but had been advised to avoid undue excitement during the honeymoon. When advised of this by Alison, Mike had earned himself the soubriquet of ‘insensitive bastard’ by responding that there was no undue risk of any excitement on honeymoon with Dave Petrie in Wales in November, but then Alison had spluttered with laughter herself at the mere thought.

  They had got the spate of homicides that Mike had wished upon the team while they trod water until M13 gave the word to move in on the Brothers Grimm. Imran Hashem had offered to plead guilty to the manslaughter of Jeremy Giles on the ground that he had over-reacted to unwanted homosexual advances, until Mike had threatened to make all the contents of his victim’s USB available to the prosecution, and now Imran was doing a deal that involved inculpating his own brother in Giles’s murder. Ali Baba might be running the show, but there was no honour among his forty thieves, Mike had concluded.

  ‘You haven’t eaten a single piece of your main course,’ Alison observed as she pushed her plate back. ‘You normally eat chicken for lunch, or so you assure me.’

  ‘A case of familiarity breeding contemp
t,’ Mike responded gruffly as he reached for the wine glass. ‘I’m too nervous to eat, anyway.’

  ‘Well don’t go getting pissed, just to give you the Dutch courage,’ Alison instructed him. ‘It’s almost time for the speeches, fortunately.’

  ‘Don’t remind me,’ Mike groaned, just as the Master of Ceremonies who came with the venue announced that it was time for the best man’s speech.

  Mike rose to his feet to a fanfare of cheers, claps, catcalls and whistles, reached in his pocket for his notes, then in a very public gesture tore them into eight pieces and threw them into the air.

  ‘Paddington unplugged,’ he joked, to more rousing cheers. Then it fell silent, and it was time to discover whether he had retained the ability to remember lines from his university drama days. He cleared his throat, took a sip of wine, and launched himself into the speech he had been practising for weeks in front of the mirrored wardrobe in the guest bedroom at home.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, no speech on this occasion would be complete without a list of Dave’s many outstanding achievements as a member of the Bramptonshire Constabulary. Accordingly, this speech will be incomplete.’

  The laughter was spasmodic, and largely confined to police officers on a day off. Encouraged, Mike continued.

  ‘He may not be the most efficient when it comes to paperwork, and he may not be God’s gift to the fashion industry, but he has what it takes to be a police officer. By that I mean that he’s stubborn, conceited, self-opinionated, pig-headed, occasionally obnoxious and easily misled. But he saved my life at least twice – the second time when I was about to eat a meat pie in the police canteen – and he’s finally proved to me that he’s worth his weight in paper clips. He’s also demonstrating to the entire world today that, despite prior indications to the contrary, he’s a good judge of character and beauty. He’s married someone who is not only far too good for him, but who, we hope, will also let some of her personality rub off on him. At the very least, we hope she teaches him how to use an iron.’

  ‘So please be upstanding and raise your glasses to Mr and Mrs Petrie.’

  As the names echoed round the room, Mike sat down.

  ‘That was very short,’ Alison complained.

  ‘I’m a very quick liar,’ Mike explained, just as Dave leaned across with a broad smile from where he was sitting to Mike’s left.

  ‘That could have been worse.’

  ‘Don’t tempt me.’

  ‘Actually, I took the precaution of getting my own back in advance,’ Dave grinned, with a gentle nod across the room, to where a small band was setting up on the stage to one side of the function suite. At the very same moment Alison grabbed his arm.

  ‘There’s Steven, but they must have another singer in tow.’

  Mike had been feeling guilty about not warning Alison in advance about the genetic suntan enjoyed by Steven’s first – and possibly last - girlfriend, but now he felt vindicated. He knew her well enough to realise that she had been in on the secret choice of band all along; otherwise she would have reacted far more excitedly to Steven’s sudden appearance, and this explained why she had been so non-committal about travelling to one of the neighbouring towns in which the band was appearing.

  ‘You gave Dave Steven’s number, didn’t you?’

  ‘How can a mother stand in the way of her son’s developing musical career?’ Alison smiled back at him. ‘I was only hoping that you didn’t buy tickets for one of their official performances.’

  ‘Aren’t they supposed to be playing the Broadhurst Jazz Club today?’

  ‘That’s this evening. This is a special matinee performance, and Dave’s paying them a small fortune, so at least pretend to be pleased. I just wish they’d brought their main singer with them.’

  You’ve asked for this, Mike told himself as he replied.

  ‘Actually they did. Say hello to Gina Hamilton.’

  ‘But ... but ...but ...I mean ...’

  ‘Think about it rationally,’ Mike advised her, thoroughly enjoying the sight of her liberal principles clashing with her motherly instincts, ‘Steven always did list coffee ice cream among his favourites.’

  Any riposte that might have been forthcoming was forestalled by the band breaking into their first number, an up-tempo version of ‘Fools Rush In’ that had to be considered totally inappropriate for the occasion, but the irony of which made Mike chuckle as he watched Gina giving it her all. Her milk chocolate brown skin was set off perfectly by a gold miniskirt that she was almost wearing, and that threatened to become an occasion of sin every time she raised an arm to coil the mike cable round it like someone performing a snake-charming act. Her severely permed afro was glittering with some sort of matching gold dust, and her shining white teeth occasionally caught the tracker spotlight as she opened her mouth fully to hit a high note.

  ‘She sounds a bit like Kate Bush,’ Alison whispered in his ear.

  ‘Agreed – a pity she looks more like Shepherd’s Bush,’ Mike muttered back, totally absorbed in the performance.

  After several opening numbers, it was Mike’s turn to be on the wrong end of a second surprise, and Dave Petrie was about to level the score.

  Gina acknowledged the applause, then held her hand up in a gesture for silence.

  ‘Thank you, everyone,’ she said in her soft New Hampshire accent. ‘And now it’s time for me to introduce my beautiful flute accompanist. His name’s Steve Saxby, and he assures me that his father’s the best man here today. That right?’

  There were cheers all round, and Mike lumbered reluctantly to his feet to acknowledge them. Gina smiled across at him.

  ‘I guess I’d have picked you out anyway,’ she purred as she blew him a kiss. ‘Now I know where Steve got his good looks.’

  There were more cheers, blended with the odd whistle and cat-call, and Gina raised her hand for silence once again.

  ‘This next number was composed by Steve especially for his Daddy, and especially for today. It’s in the style of Steve’s favourite jazz musician, Dave Brubek, and it was originally written as an instrumental. But then I persuaded him that something so special ought to have lyrics, so we asked Mike’s police colleagues to come up with some. So, with music by Steve Saxby, and lyrics by Dave Petrie, we give you the very first public performance of “Song for Paddington”.’

  The first line was drowned out by appreciative yells of encouragement, but Mike winced with embarrassment, occasionally chuckling despite himself to the many references to bears, sore heads, marmalade, breaking wind and yoghurt. Dave Petrie sat back with a malicious smirk all over his stupid face, and Mike wished that he’d saved some of his trifle to rub his nose in. Mercifully it came to an end, and loud cheers from the floor indicated that the audience was now thoroughly warmed up.

  A few minutes later the band took a break, and Steven led Gina over by the hand, stooping to give his mother a big kiss as Gina tiptoed up to where Mike had risen to welcome her, and planted a big kiss on his cheek that left a perfect forensic lipstick trace.

  ‘Sorry about the deception, Dad,’ Steven said with a smile that looked anything other than apologetic, ‘and I hope you liked the song. It’s probably going on our forthcoming CD.’

  ‘At least I know what I’ll be getting for Christmas,’ Mike growled back as he gave Steven a big hug.

  ‘About that,’ Steven explained as he stepped back. ‘I’m afraid I’ll be in Chicago, recording said CD. We’ve got the chance of a lifetime to play “The Whistler” for three nights, and the guy who booked us threw in ten hours in his studio out the back, so ... ’

  ‘That’s alright, dear,’ Alison cooed, ‘It’ll just leave more for your father to eat.’

  ‘Melanie’s coming home for Christmas anyway,’ Steven assured them. ‘I spoke to her yesterday on the phone, because we’re doing a student gig in Oxford for an extra night of the tour, and she promised to be there. She said she was looking forward to being home for the Christmas break.’


  ‘At least you’ll be able to offload another of your CDs,’ Mike grinned.

  ‘So what did you think of the music?’ Gina asked as she hugged Mike’s arm.

  ‘Not my style, I have to admit, but it was cheery enough.’

  ‘Dad’s musical tastes lost their buds listening to “Wham”,’ Steven explained. He looked at his watch. ‘I think we’re due back on in five – I’ll just get us some drinks.’

  After giving him another hug and a kiss, Gina glided back towards the stage, and Alison diverted Mike’s attention from her retreating backside.

  ‘She’s gorgeous! I hope Steven hangs on to her.’

  ‘I’m sure he does,’ Mike joked, as he felt a prod in his back. There stood Dave and Joy, the latter swaying slightly as Dave held her arm in the gentlest of restraints.

  ‘Just came over to thank the pair of you for everything,’ Dave said as Joy nodded her consent. ‘No hard feelings about the music, I hope?’

  ‘I’m not one to hold a grudge, as you know,’ Mike smiled maliciously, ‘but the first chain saw massacre that comes up after your return from honeymoon will be all yours.’