No Turning Back

by Freddie P Peters

  None whatsoever.

  Having more time to think about the direction of her life had perhaps allowed her to let her true emotional needs emerge or perhaps her aversion to being attached despite the keen attraction she felt for Pole had caught up with her. She could no longer argue that her busy job was taking her away from possible relationships or that men do not like to date a woman of keen intellect in a position of power. Her intellect was certainly intact but she had become a philanthropist, patron of the arts and collector. Nothing very scary about that.

  Nancy moved to the kitchen, a modern and aesthetic space – wood, steel and stone – with plenty of room to cook and enjoy a gathering of friends or entertain a single person. She smiled at the memory of her first dinner “en tête à tête” with Jonathan Pole, both a little nervous and both trying to be humorous about it. The gurgling of the kettle was interrupted by a sharp click. It snapped Nancy out of her reverie and she started preparing a fresh pot of tea. She always took pleasure in this simple ritual but today it had become a little less enjoyable.

  She saw her mother, so very English yet so very carefree, making the same gestures. But this time the attractive young man of the photo has disappeared. Her mother looks tired, sleep deprived through lack of news. Silence tearing at her soul every day. The ghost of her father floating over them both since his departure for China, ever since the letters he had promised stopped coming. By then Nancy had decided to push memories of her father away, push them to a place they could no longer be reached and could no longer hurt. Nancy, the rebel who dissented as a matter of course at The Sorbonne, was merely dealing with her loss.

  She knew that now more clearly than she had known then. But she also understood that her indecision, her reluctance to commit to a man, was rooted in this pain she had ignored for so long. Nancy was back in her lounge. She was drinking tea. She didn’t quite know how she had got there.

  A few months ago she had almost lost her life and the chance to respond to Pole’s affection. Her stomach tightened at the thought.

  “It is time.” She must move on. It was somehow ironic though. She, who had been so instrumental in helping Henry come to terms with the rage that had almost destroyed him, was now on the same journey. Harrowing, laborious but worthwhile.

  She hoped.

  Nancy returned to the photo, the old documents; she started on her yellow notepad to do what she had done best all her life, to ask the hard questions.

  Chapter Ten

  A crust had started to form on his bowl of porridge. He laid the tray carefully on his small desk, opened the salt sachet and sprinkled it over his breakfast. He always preferred eating porridge the Scottish way. He began eating, taking his time. Henry had rarely eaten in his cell since he had made contact with Kamal. He was careful not to break the pattern of his daily routine. Anything out of the ordinary would attract the attention of the prison officers. Today was different. He was once more allowed outside HSU. The guards would understand he might not wish to show his excitement or apprehension to the other inmates.

  Kamal would also know that Henry was on his way to Scotland Yard. He had assured Henry that, God willing, he would organise an escape. Henry finished the porridge, moved to his bed and sat down cross-legged with his cup of tea. He had expected Kamal to have a crack at the rhetoric about “the fight”, “the Jihad”, but he had been remarkably silent. He had simply demonstrated to Henry how other Muslim inmates were devoted to him. One of them was sent to the box, a room with nothing inside apart from a Perspex window, for instigating a fight. A couple of other inmates had tasted the segregation unit, a place where prisoners spent at least twenty-three hours in their cells every day, for breaking HSU rules. Kamal or Abu Maeraka, always affable, always discreet, was slowly building his army within HSU and perhaps outside. Henry suspected that the guards were not fooled by his manners but knew could they do nothing about someone who was polite and did not seem to cause trouble. He was a true leader of the kind that inspired total devotion.

  Henry had mentioned the Qur’an, after finding the small book in his cell. It had been clever to say nothing beforehand, to let Henry wonder why it had been put there. “You might want to understand how my brothers think,” had been Kamal’s reply when Henry had questioned him about it. It was unobtrusive and clever. Would Henry be asked to join the faith once he was outside?

  Henry drained his cup. He pushed the thought aside. For now, he needed to anticipate what Kamal had in mind for their escape. He had never entered a deal in his City banking life without having the upper hand or at least without having an ace up his sleeve. This situation was different though, more fluid. He needed to think on his feet, to be prepared for all eventualities and also to be physically ready. He had trained his mind ruthlessly for more than twenty years in investment banking and on the trading floor. Today he would train his body, pushing himself to the limit alongside Big K. Henry might even regret leaving Big K behind.

  Henry stood up, grabbed a small towel which he slung over his well-developed shoulders and walked out of his cell. His porridge would give him plenty of energy since, after all, it was a decent breakfast.

  “What’s happened to your taste buds?” Henry murmured with a sigh. Gone were the days when he would have returned a boiled egg to the kitchen because it was not cooked to perfection. Henry prepared himself to run the gauntlet of the gates he had to cross before arriving at the gym. He would be frisked a few times in the process. Nothing so strenuous ever happened in a standard prison compound, even on the Category A wing, which housed the most dangerous criminals. But this was HSU Belmarsh and no measures were spared to ensure maximum control over the inmates.

  Henry entered the gym where Big K had already started his routine. He had his back turned against the wall facing the door. Henry had never thought about it before but realised now that none of the machines had their backs turned to the door – so no one could sneak up from behind.

  Big K was in full swing. The rowing machine was moaning under the strain of his efforts. Henry set himself up a couple of machines away, arranging the weights tray. He added to the set left behind by a previous inmate. Henry stretched against the wall and when he was done started exercising. One of the officers at the far end of the room observed them for a moment, then looked elsewhere.

  “Not at breakfast this morning?” Big K asked as he slowed down the pace.

  “Nope, felt like a little bit of privacy in my deluxe three by nine suite.” Henry replied as he pushed hard on the traction bars.

  “You’re out again?” Big K slowed down a little more, the machine now purring comfortably.

  Henry exhaled loudly. “Can’t hide anything from you.”

  “Lucky bastard, man; you’re gonna breathe some proper fresh air.” Big K shook his head.

  Henry smiled. “You mean the shitty fumes of the van that’s going to take me to the Yard and the crappy air of the crappy room in which they are going to squeeze me?”

  “At least that’s proper kinda pollution, right?”

  “As opposed to what?” Henry pressed on the traction bars harder and heard the weights hit the top of the machine.

  “The BO of all the guys who don’t shower after exercise. Man, I don’t get it; show some respect.” Big K replaced the handlebar in its holder, wiped the sweat from his face and drank from the plastic cup he had brought with him.

  The guard looked in their direction again. Big K had moved towards the wall at the back of Henry’s machine and started stretching.

  “Any news about Ronnie Kray?” Henry asked before his next move.

  “Zippo. He’s been unusually quiet after he tried to piss you off. Think John had a chat with him.” Big K groaned as he changed legs. “That guy is a real nut job – unpredictable, know what I mean?”

  Henry started quick repetitions, pumping hard and unable to reply.

  “Got news on
Kamal.” Big K was almost hesitant.

  Henry squeezed the traction bar and pulled a couple more times on the weights. “What’s the word on the street?”

  “You know he was transferred straightaway to HSU after being sentenced?”

  The officer stood up and started walking around the room. Henry replaced the traction bar. He added to the weights tray again and re-started his routine. His muscles screamed under the pressure. The guard walked past them and returned to his seat. Henry stood up, walking behind the back of Big K’s machine to start stretching. “And?” he said, running the towel over his face.

  “Kamal got busy during his trial.” Big K detached every syllable, “Radicalisation.”

  “You mean he radicalised some of the other detainees?”

  “Yup. And he got others to do it too, recruiting guys like you and me.” Big K paused. “The guy is real bad news, man.”

  “Thanks for the tip.” Henry was almost at the end of his weights routine. “How do you know that anyway?”

  “’Cos he got his guys in the main prison units and so have I.”

  Big K had moved away from the machines for a final set of stretches. He was clocking up a lot of goodwill which he would want to cash in sometime. Nothing came for free. But if Henry was smart enough he would be out of here before he found out what Big K’s price was.

  * * *

  The police officers at the door checked her ID, three of them, wearing body armour, heavy weaponry and earpieces plugged in.

  They looked the part and Marissa was almost reassured. She walked into Mark Phelps’ parents’ home. Another police officer, a middle-aged woman this time, in civilian clothes, greeted her. Mark and his children had been moved to the back of the house. The terraced property in Holland Park was not dissimilar to the one Mark had just left. After the explosion the house had been boarded up and forensic specialists were still working their way through the crime scene.

  The smell of cooking surprised Marissa and it made her mouth water: a mixture of vanilla with a hint of cinnamon, her favourite spices. Someone was preparing comfort food for a family in distress. Marissa gingerly entered a spacious room, photos in different shapes of frame on every shelf. Mark was sitting on the sofa with his arms wrapped around his children, huddling together in silence. The pieces of cake that had been placed in front of them were barely touched. Marissa stopped, her imposing frame intruding on their intimacy.

  “Hello Marissa,” Mark said in a tired voice, his face still partially bandaged and his bruises shading from yellow to blue.

  “Hello Mark,” Marissa took one step forward, undecided. “If this is not a good time …”

  “It won’t be a good time for years to come,” Mark replied. He kissed his girl and his boy of the top of the head. “Come on guys, perhaps you could check whether grandma needs your help.”

  The little girl wriggled away but the young boy clung to his dad even tighter.

  “We’ll watch a Disney movie a bit later. OK, big guy?” His son nodded and slid off the couch, fingers still stuck in his mouth.

  Mark’s mother appeared in the doorway. She brought Marissa a cup of tea and poured a fresh cup for her son. She gently squeezed his shoulder and as she turned away he squeezed her hand in return.

  “Any news?” Mark asked as he was taking a sip of his tea.

  “Nothing new yet, I’m afraid. At least nothing that’s been communicated to me.” Marissa sat down in the armchair closest to him.

  “You said someone would help with the case.” Mark shifted a cushion that no longer felt comfortable against his back.

  “That’s right. A woman called Nancy Wu; someone I know and respect hugely. She is a former QC. She practised criminal law for years and has a lot of experience in white-collar crime.” Marissa would not mention Nancy’s representation of war criminals; why muddy the waters?

  “Her name sounds familiar,” Mark said. “How do you know her?”

  “I was her pupil when I trained as a barrister.”

  Mark nodded. Marissa was expecting more questions but instead he closed his eyes and let his head rest against the back of the settee. Marissa waited. Perhaps it was too soon. She put down her cup silently. Mark opened his eyes again.

  “Mark?” Marissa moved her body forward as much as she could, whispering.

  “Mmm?”

  “I have to ask.” Marissa inhaled. “Are you certain you want to carry on with the case?”

  Mark arched his unbandaged eyebrow in surprise. “I would have thought that the SFO would be very happy.”

  “Of course, the director is ecstatic, but I am not the director and I will support you in whatever you decide to do.” Marissa’s face was smooth and open. She meant what she said.

  “I don’t think I will change my mind, Marissa, but thank you for giving me space.” Mark moved his body again trying to find a more comfortable position. “Besides, they will crucify you if they learn you haven’t secured my participation.”

  “That’s my problem.” Marissa tightened her mouth, determined.

  Mark ran his hand mechanically over his bandages. “Unless you’re not confident of a successful prosecution.”

  “No, it’s not that,” Marissa interrupted, placing a hand on the sofa next to Mark. “I will fight for this, believe me, but I will not push you to do what you do not want to do.”

  Mark nodded.

  “Anyway, maybe it’s time for me to go back to where I come from.”

  “Barbados.”

  Marissa smiled, a beautiful broad grin that shone like the sun of her own country.

  “Don’t you have family in the UK though?”

  “Oh yes; some of them arrived in 1948. Have you heard about the Windrush generation?”

  “Should I have?”

  “Don’t worry, not many people have unless they’re part of that community or deal with immigration issues for those who didn’t think it necessary to have papers. The policy of the current Home Secretary, Theresa May, means there’s a hostile environment.”

  “Tell me.” Mark winced as he moved forward to replace his cup on the table. Marissa hesitated but then why not? It was an important part of the UK’s history that was seldom talked about.

  Marissa spoke about the first wave of people from the Caribbean who had arrived after the Second World War to help rebuild the country. The first boat that carried them was called HMT Empire Windrush. It was the beginning of waves of immigration between 1948 and 1971. With the continuing labour shortage in the UK many of them settled.

  “Many of those people have been here for decades, have families. But, unfortunately, often have no official papers.”

  “Surely, they must be entitled to something?”

  “Strictly speaking, no – unless they have applied successfully for leave to stay.” Mark was about to question her again. “A story for another time.” Marissa smiled.

  “Will you find someone on the banking side to help with the case? You said you would since it is important.” Mark asked after a moment.

  Marissa froze. Until now she had not thought about it, but how could she explain to Mark that the man about to work with him on the SFO case had been condemned for financial terrorism?

  “We are looking at options,” was the best Marissa could think of off the cuff. Not entirely false. Crowne had not been confirmed yet. She would work out later how to break the news to Mark.

  * * *

  With a croissant stuck in his mouth, a cup of coffee in one hand and a couple of files under his arm, Andy was struggling to retrieve his pass from his trouser pocket. A hand holding an ID materialised in front of him and Pole opened the door of the large open-plan room in which his team worked. Andy shook his head and mumbled something that sounded like thank you.

  Pole rolled his eyes and smiled. “Have your breakfast, t
hen we can talk.”

  Pole moved to his desk, dumped his mac on a pile of documents, sat down and booted up his computer. He was expecting results from forensics yet anticipated no surprises. He picked up the phone and dialled Yvonne’s number.

  “Analysis confirmed,” Yvonne said by way of greeting.

  “Blimey, bad day already?” If Yvonne was abrupt, something was up.

  “A partial set of prints is giving me trouble.”

  “Relevant to my case?”

  “Possibly, I’ll tell you tomorrow – and don’t ask me whether I have run them through IDENT1.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” Pole teased. No point in badgering Yvonne further.

  Andy had materialised in front of the desk, his files still under his arm and a few crumbs of croissant scattered on his pullover.

  “Good news, Guv,” he said moving files from the chair that stood in front of Pole’s desk so he could sit down. Pole extended a hand and took the files from his DS. “That would be useful as we have nothing new from forensics.”

  “Eugene, I mean DCI Grandel —” Andy grew a little pink and Pole laughed. “Don’t worry, half of the force calls him by his first name. A couple more meetings and he will ask you to call him Uggie.”

  Andy nodded and carried on in a rush of words. “Well, the thing that is interesting about Visconti and his trafficking is that he uses – I mean he used to use – the Libyan route.”

  Pole pulled a face. “OK, backtrack a little.”

  “Yes, sorry Guv. I’ve been wondering who and where his connections were in the Middle-East and how he would go about doing his smuggling.” Andy waited, his large glasses almost down to the tip of his nose.

  “Don’t hold back. This sounds good.”

  “Visconti knew his way around and he had never had trouble smuggling art before.”

  Pole nodded to indicate he was listening.

  “Then he gets killed – worse, it’s a proper barbaric slaughter. So there is a message, a message really worth sending to whoever.”