‘He’s my superior officer,’ Isaac Cook replied. It was not the truth, but Shafi did not know that he was the senior of the two interrogating policemen. ‘If he gives me an order, I will have to obey. I give you my word I’ll report him to our disciplinary committee afterwards.’
‘You mean, after I have been beaten to a pulp?’
‘It’s the best I can do. They will take action against him. I can promise you that.’
‘Of what use is that to me?’ Shafi said.
‘Give him the answers he wants and then there’s no problem, is there?’ Isaac Cook, still maintaining his position as the good guy, had given Shafi a solution.
‘I don’t know anything. What are we talking about?’ Shafi continued to insist.
‘Last night,’ Ed Pickles again looked Shafi directly in the eyes. ‘A British Pakistani by the name of Wali Hasan was raped and murdered in the detention cell. Do you deny that you were not there?’
‘It wasn’t me. I wasn’t there. I swear on the grave of my mother.’
‘Firstly, your mother is fine and well and living in Pakistan,’ Ed Pickles said. ‘Secondly, we have proof that you were in the detention cell.’
‘What kind of proof? I wasn’t there. I’m telling you the truth.’
‘You raped the poor little sod. Admit it.’
‘Rape? That’s for women, not men.’ Shafi, not as confident as when he was first brought into the interview room, maintained his innocence.
‘You saw him?’ Isaac Cook asked calmly.
‘Yes, I saw him. We all did, when he was brought in,’ Shafi said.
‘And men get frustrated in here and they take it out on some of the younger inmates,’ Ed Pickles said.
‘It happens, so what? We’re banged in here for crimes we didn’t commit and then we’re meant to sit idle until we’re too old to care?’
‘So you sometimes take advantage of them?’ Isaac Cook asked.
‘Me, never,’ Shafi insisted. ‘I’m innocent of killing that gypsy. I’m not going to ruin my appeal by forcing some frightened boy in the showers.’
‘Innocent, are you sure about that?’ Isaac Cook asked.
‘Yes, I am, but the police wouldn’t believe me. It was the gypsy’s knife, not mine. I just grabbed it off him, attempted to throw it away, and he moved and got in the way. It was his stupid fault, and here I am banged up in this dump for fifteen years.’
‘If you play fair with us, then we can look into that conviction.’ Isaac Cook had studied all there was in reference to Mohammad Sohail Shafi. The evidence against him had been largely circumstantial and, if the judge and probably the jury had not been prejudicial against an unpleasant Pakistani, he would have got off with manslaughter, five years at most. It didn’t change the fact that he was the murderer of Wali Hasan.
‘I’m telling you the truth,’ Shafi continued to protest his innocence.
‘We have your DNA, you raped him,’ Ed Pickles said.
‘DNA?’ said Shafi. ‘I’ve heard of that before. Some smart-arse scientists in a laboratory messing around with glass tubes! What does that mean to me?’
‘If you had studied more at school, taken your science lessons seriously, you’d realise that those smart-arse scientists can find out a lot from what you and I can’t see.’
‘Detective Inspector Pickles is right,’ Isaac Cook said. ‘And your DNA, which they found in sperm around the backside of Wali Hasan’s anus, is admissible in court. They’ll convict you of the murder, that’s for sure. It’ll make no difference if the gypsy was an accident, they’ll still get you for Wali Hasan.’
‘Admissible, something that can’t be seen? I don’t believe you!’ Shafi shouted.
‘I can show you written proof that they will.’ Isaac Cook felt that Shafi was weakening.
‘We know you raped him,’ Isaac Cook maintained the pressure. ‘So that makes you the murderer as well, if there was no one else there.’
‘Okay, okay, I fucked him, but it wasn’t rape,’ Shafi admitted. ‘He was lonely, glad of some attention.’
‘He wasn’t that way inclined,’ the black policeman countered the less than confident Pakistani’s statement. ‘I threatened to throw him naked into the main prison and he freaked out.’
‘I know what this is. It’s the good guy/bad guy routine. You’re pretending to be good.’ Shafi pointed at Isaac Cook. ‘And you,’ he said, pointing at Ed Pickles, ‘the bad guy. Well, you’re both bad. You’re trying to twist me around to admitting to the murder of the kid.’
‘No we’re not, but what other conclusion is there?’ said Isaac Cook. ‘We know it’s rape, and we’d go into a court of law and swear to it. And, unless we get proof to the contrary, you’re the murderer. It’s as simple as that.’
‘Okay, he put up a fight, but you don’t know what it’s like in here. I’m no worse than any of the others. Any of the inmates would have raped him. It’s just that I was first.’
‘And after you had raped him, you took a nylon cord from the gym and put it round his neck and twisted,’ Ed Pickles said. Barbara Sykes and her team had conclusive proof of the murder weapon.
‘Okay, pin the rape on me,’ shouted Shafi. ‘I’ve got another thirteen years to go in here, another two for bad behaviour won’t make any difference. But I’m not going to be stitched up with his murder as well.’
‘How did you know the gate to the detention cell would be open?’ Ed Pickles asked.
‘I received a phone call.’
‘Phone? I thought they were restricted?’ Isaac Cook said.
‘Don’t act stupid with me,’ Shafi replied contemptuously. ‘You know this place is awash with mobile phones, contraband. Even weapons, if you look long enough.’
‘Do the prison officers know this?’ Ed Pickles asked.
‘They should – most of them are in on the smuggling.’
‘And you. Why the phone call to go and rape a detainee?’ Isaac Cook asked.
‘A favour returned. What else?’
‘Favour for what?’
‘Sometimes I help out with the smuggling,’ said Shafi. ‘Letters mainly, the occasional cheese, ham, sometimes it's a birthday cake, nothing serious though.’
‘We can check, but if it’s drugs we’ll be forced to inform the authorities. That’s another ten years,’ Isaac Cook said.
‘What do you want from me?’ said Shafi angrily. ‘I didn’t murder him. I’m not going to take the wrap for it.’
‘Whether you did or not is not our greatest concern,’ Ed Pickles said. ‘What we want is the person who phoned you. Are you a supporter of the Islamic State?’
‘Those deluded fools? Not a chance! Live and let live, that’s my motto. They can have their Islamic State, as long as I’ve got London – or at least the London on the other side of these four walls. Protecting us from the community, that’s what your prison service says. There’s more crime going on in here than there is outside, and the worst offenders are those who are meant to be on the side of law and order.’
‘It’s an imperfect world,’ said Isaac Cook. ‘You help us and we’ll help you, maybe get you a transfer somewhere else, a review of your conviction.’
‘Can you do that?’
‘We’re from the Counter Terrorism Command. You’d be surprised what we can do. We can have you slammed in solitary for the rest of your natural. We could even get you out of this rat hole tomorrow. It depends on what you do for us.’
‘Who made the phone call?’ Ed Pickles asked.
‘The honest truth is I don’t know,’ said Shafi. ‘I would swear on the life of my mother, and yes, she is well and fit in Pakistan.’
‘You receive a phone call, yet you don’t know who it is. Are you expecting us to believe you?’ Ed Pickles asked again.
‘It’s the truth. He made contact with me when I first came in here, made sure I had a smuggled phone. One of the guards gave it to me.’
‘Which guard was that?’ Isaac Cook asked.
‘Unfortunately, he’s no longer around to ask.’
‘Did he open the gate?’ Shafi asked innocently.
‘It looks probable. What do you know about him?’
‘Not a lot. He seemed decent enough for a screw – sorry, prison officer.’
‘Don’t worry, we know what a screw is,’ Isaac Cook said. ‘Was he involved in the smuggling?’
‘Him and a few others, that’s for sure,’ Shafi said. ‘Find him, he’ll tell you that he gave me the phone. Maybe he killed Wali Hasan.’
‘We’ll ask him when we find him.’
‘When will that be? Soon?’ Shafi asked.
‘Sooner or later, we always get our man,’ said Ed Pickles. ‘We’re like the Canadian Mounties, never give up until we get a result.’
‘Canadian Mounties?’ That must be a copper’s joke. It’s lost on me.’
‘Your mysterious benefactor, what number does he phone from? Is there a number shown on your phone?’ Ed Pickles asked.
‘It changes. I’ve not taken any notice, as long as he looks after me, cigarettes mainly – they’re always good currency in here. If he sends the occasional money to my mother then I’m happy to do what he wants, no questions asked.’
‘And he supplies the drugs that you sell in the prison for some extra cash?’ Isaac Cook asked.
‘Drugs? Don’t try and pin that wrap on me. I’m clean in here.’
‘Apart from your dick, after shoving it up the arse of some young kid in the showers,’ Ed Pickles said.
‘Most of them are fags anyway,’ said Shafi. ‘They enjoy it.’
‘We’re not here to discuss your love life, depraved as it is,’ said Ed Pickles. ‘We still want the person at the end of the phone. We’ll need your phone records. Just give us the phone, or at least the phone numbers of the calls that you’ve received and we can do the checking from our end. Is that okay?’
‘That’s fine, as long as you don’t let on to the Prison Governor.’
‘You work with us and we’ll work with you,’ Isaac Cook agreed.
‘What did he sound like?’ Ed Pickles asked.
‘Who?’ Shafi said.
‘Don’t be obtuse. The voice, who else?’
‘Educated. He spoke a clear Pashto, no bad language. One of the better schools in Pakistan and then an education here in England. I’m no expert, though. My Pashto is as rough as my English.’
‘Would you recognise his voice again, on a playback for instance?’ Isaac Cook asked.
‘Yes, I’m sure I would.’
‘I’ll tell you what we’ll do.’ Isaac Cook had an idea. ‘If we get you out of here, you’ll work for us undercover. If you play fair, we’ll ensure that, at the end of our current investigations, you’ll be returned to prison, but in a cushy prison farm down in the country, plenty of fresh air, and a five-year confirmed sentence with time off for good behaviour. How does that sound?’
‘Can I trust you?’ Shafi asked.
‘You can trust us,’ said Isaac Cook. ‘We’re turning a blind eye to the murder you committed here, that should be enough proof.’
‘I didn’t murder anyone.’
‘Yes, so you said,’ Ed Pickles said. ‘Wait here for us and we will return.’
‘When will that be?’ Shafi asked.
‘We can’t give you a timescale,’ said Isaac Cook. ‘Maybe two weeks, a maximum of four. But wait and we will return.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m not planning any trips for the next few weeks.’
Governor Sheldon had asked for a debriefing before they left the prison. Seated in comfortable chairs in the Governor’s office drinking Earl Grey tea, it was hard to believe that they were in the middle of one of the most secure prisons in the country, housing some of the most violent criminals that England had the misfortune to be responsible for.
‘Call me Harry,’ Governor Sheldon said.
‘Ed, Isaac.’ Pickles felt obliged to respond, but an old-fashioned cop did not get overly familiar with his colleagues or his criminals.
‘Did he kill the young man?’ Sheldon asked.
‘No, he did not,’ Isaac Cook said. ‘He raped him, but that’s confidential. No action is to be taken against him. I’ll give you a covering letter to that effect. Is that okay with you?’
‘If it’s on the letterhead of Counter Terrorism Command and duly signed.’
‘No action while we continue our investigations. Is that clear?’
‘It’s clear by me,’ said Sheldon. ‘I realise that you must get involved in some undercover, highly secretive work. It’s not for me to interfere or obstruct.’ The Governor was pleased that the murder in one of his cells was to be hushed up. An official inquiry would have held him responsible.
‘Who committed the murder?’ the Governor asked, curious to know.
‘We’re focusing on Seamus Gilligan, the missing prison officer,’ Isaac Cook replied.
‘Can you find him?’
‘He can’t have gone far,’ Isaac Cook replied.
***
The Churchill Arms in Kensington was busy when they arrived for a meal and a few pints of beer. Ed Pickles would have the few pints, Isaac Cook, two at most.
‘Isaac, what you told Governor Sheldon. How much of what you said did you believe?’ Ed asked.
‘Not a lot,’ Isaac replied.
‘So what’s your take on Mohammad Sohail Shafi? Rapist? Murderer?’
‘My view is the same as yours. He was contracted to murder Wali Hasan and took the opportunity for a rape at the same time.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ said Ed. ‘So why are we making a deal with a rapist and a murderer?’
‘Mohammad Sohail Shafi can recognise the voice on the phone and we need the guy behind the voice as soon as possible. It looks as though he is an organiser, a facilitator, and it’s clear that these bombings around the country need someone smart to deal with the logistics. Maybe it’s him?’
‘So we make the deal with Shafi, get him out of prison and then send him back?’ Ed said.
‘Partially,’ said Isaac. ‘We make the deal, get him out, find the facilitator and then send Shafi undercover. Do you see any problems?’
‘It sounds fine to me. It’s hardly out of the modern book of police regulations, though.’
‘Stuff them,’ Isaac said. ‘We’re dealing with some nasty individuals here and they don’t follow regulations or read any books. We need to stop them before they bring this country to its knees.’
‘Spoken like a future Commissioner of the London Metropolitan Police.’
‘Very funny,’ said Isaac. ‘If we stuff this up, I’ll be back on the beat with a tall helmet in double-quick time.’ He looked at Ed and grinned.
‘We’ll not stuff up. We can’t afford to,’ Ed said.
‘No qualms with letting a murderer out on the streets?’ Isaac asked.
‘None at all. We do what we must. Besides, he’ll not let us down. He knows that, if we can get him out, we can certainly put him back with an instruction, solitary, never to be released.’
‘Seamus Gilligan, what do we do about him?’ Isaac asked.
‘We have to find him and double quick. Shafi’s safe because he’s locked up, but Gilligan has probably received phone calls from the facilitator as well. He may have some idea as to who he is. He’s a dead man walking, unless we grab him soon.’
‘That’s certain,’ Isaac agreed. ‘ He’s our priority now.’
Chapter 6
Durrani, the master bomb maker, wrestled with a problem for which he could see no solution. It was one thing to equip a suicide bomber, fit out a car with a concealed bomb, but his greatest challenge, the one that Faisal Aslam said would be his greatest achievement, gave him concern. The bomb needed to be small, it needed to be focused and it needed to be foolproof. He had to ensure the death of one eminent person within a group of eminent persons and none of them was to be killed, not even ha
rmed. Indiscriminate killing of people in a public place was second nature to him, but controlled, tight explosions had not been asked before. Faisal Aslam was specific in his requirements.
Events in the Middle East continued to ebb and flow, mostly flow, and the move of the Islamic State into Europe continued to move forward. Durrani had been there in the early days as they moved up through Iraq and Syria. He well remembered the beheadings and the pretty tribal girls in the Kurdish region. The pretty girls still excited him but, with the top of his penis having been taken off by a misfiring igniter, there was little that he could do. The joy of a peasant girl pleading for her life, her virginity, was behind him now. Still, it had its compensations. Never would he hurry the construction of a bomb for the sake of pleasuring himself with some frightened female, and he had to admit that his skills had improved immeasurably. The bombs in those days were crude compared to the elegant solutions he was capable of now.
‘I need another dozen suicide vests. When can you let me have them?’ Faisal Aslam asked, disturbing the concentration of Durrani. One slip and he could easily have blown himself up.
‘I have told you many times, do not walk up behind me and start talking,’ Durrani responded with anger.
‘This is my house and you are my guest,’ replied Faisal Aslam. He was not used to an employee showing him such a lack of respect. ‘It is my right to go where I want, talk when I want.’
‘I can understand that,’ Durrani replied almost apologetically. ‘But if I had touched the red wire to that blue wire as you walked in, then both of us would be holding our conversation somewhere else, certainly not in this mortal world.’
‘Durrani, you are right. I apologise. I continue to forget the nature of your work.’
‘Then your apology is accepted. The vests are ready, as are the backpacks. Do you have the martyrs ready?’
‘They are ready,’ said Faisal Aslam. ‘You will need you to instruct them.’
‘Donkeys? Or do they possess some brains?’ Durrani asked.
‘They’re better than donkeys, but not by much.’
‘Then let us hope that Allah bestows his pleasure on us and ensures they don’t blow us up or their families.’
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