I knew who al-Ebouli was as recently, whilst investigating allegations that my CID ex-boss, DCI Neville Thornwyn, had been involved in the robbery of a shop selling firearms, I’d had to talk with him in his university office. I wasn’t sure how the matter had been resolved as MI5 had taken over the case. One of the participants in the robbery was now dead and the other was in prison, but al-Ebouli was still at liberty.
As we arrived, we were met by flashbulbs popping and questions shouted from nearby journalists about why Mulvehill was sharing a platform with a known Muslim extremist, along with fervent requests from photographers to “look this way, Ian” as he moved towards the hall. He pointedly ignored them. There was also a BBC camera team present, filming our arrival. They were recording the meeting for a Panorama special about whether cherished western values, such as the right to freedom of speech, should be extended to incorporate those like Khaled al-Ebouli, who were openly contemptuous of such values, and, if not, where the line was to be drawn in the light of recent attacks. Mulvehill had recently been asked by Panorama for an interview about the issue and, in particular, why he was prepared to share a public platform with a man like Khaled al-Ebouli, given he was the leader of the opposition and potentially the next Prime Minister, but so far hadn’t decided on his response.
Mulvehill was greeted warmly after we’d arrived and parked in the school car park. There was a police presence but they’d not formed a line to keep well-wishers back, as they’d judged this to be a non-threatening situation, though they had with the media. There were shouts of support and encouragement, handshakes and the occasional embrace from Mulvehill’s supporters, which caused consternation from the team walking alongside him. That he was popular with his people wasn’t in doubt.
I walked just in front, scanning the crowd, looking for anything suspicious, or anyone who looked like they were present for the wrong reason. People who avoided eye contact were automatically suspicious. In particular I was looking for anyone who might have a grudge about a known extremist being present, and might be prepared to show their displeasure by attempting to disrupt the meeting, but nobody seemed to fit the bill. Prior to the meeting I’d been shown a file about known right-wing hotheads living in the area, and I’d noted a few faces, but none could be seen here, and the officer in charge had told us on arrival the situation was under control. We made it through the crowd with no problem.
We were greeted by the local authority bigwig who was chairing tonight’s meeting, and Mulvehill was escorted into the school hall. There were already a couple of hundred people seated, waiting for the meeting to start.
I was then told the other speaker was arriving. I saw a car pulling into the car park and several camera flashes as the door was held open by a bodyguard who looked like one of Ali Baba’s forty thieves, and Khaled al-Ebouli emerged, looking around. Another man got out the other side of the car. Two people in the car park held up a Union Jack and shouted, “Fuck off back to the desert, you Muslim scum,” but police quickly ordered them to leave immediately or be arrested. They took the hint and left.
The three men, with al-Ebouli in the middle, walked calmly towards the hall. The two bodyguards were both at least six foot, well-built and of Middle Eastern appearance. They both had thick jet black moustaches and mops of unkempt black hair. One was probably mid-forties and wearing a suit but the one in front was younger, probably mid-to-late twenties, and dressed in denim jeans and a combat jacket. They looked around approaching the hall, and were walking with all the contained assurance of trained fighting men.
At the school entrance, I stood in front of them, blocking their access. The bodyguard wearing combat fatigues looked like he was about to come at me, but when I produced my ID he stopped.
“Either of you two carrying weapons?” I asked.
“No, they are not.” Al-Ebouli walked forward. “Now, may we enter?”
“Open your jackets,” I ordered both men. Nobody moved. I called over two uniforms. “Search these two clowns for concealed weapons. If they resist, arrest them. If they’re carrying, arrest them.”
Both men were thoroughly frisked by the uniforms, and they looked horrified, as though they were being asked to expose themselves in church. The older man in particular was looking at me with evident displeasure.
“Both clean, skip.”
“Okay, gents, in you go.” I allowed the party to enter the hall.
In the hall Mulvehill was talking to a small group of party supporters whilst signing copies of a book of his speeches he’d published last year. He’d told us in advance what was likely to happen when we reached the hall, and he’d not been wrong. I’d not realised, in an age where politicians seemed to be considered wholly venal after the expenses scandal, and were regarded by many sections of the electorate as being lower than vermin, that there were politicians radiating such an aura of celebrity and who enjoyed very strong community support from their electorate.
The chairman called the meeting to order. He welcomed everyone, thanked them for coming and introduced the speaking order. Mulvehill was to speak second and al-Ebouli would conclude. Due to fewer speakers, speeches would be slightly longer and there’d be time for questions. Great, I thought, downheartedly. I stood at the side of the platform and observed the crowd, most of who were sitting rapt, looking at the speakers and listening intently.
The far-left speaker opened the meeting and spoke for twenty minutes. His speech was mainly one long tirade against London becoming, in his words, “an enclave for super-rich Russian crooks buying up whole streets of expensive properties with their dirty laundered money, which the current Tory mayor turned a blind eye to”. He also said that, should his party win the election, London’s police would become subject to democratic scrutiny and control. I looked forward to that one, especially the thought of Smitherman justifying himself to a panel of local worthies. The only thing he said which drew any audience response was his claim that, if his party’s candidate became mayor, Buckingham Palace would be turned into a hostel for London’s homeless, with the royal family going into exile. He was politely heard and sat down to muted applause.
Mulvehill received a warm reception. He spoke without notes for thirty minutes about Labour’s policies and plans for London after it won the mayoralty, focusing on more housing and better infrastructure, and denigrated the Tory incumbent for some of the sleazy practices of the past few years in the capital. He sat down to warm applause.
But then Khaled al-Ebouli rose to speak and the atmosphere became more charged. I suspected this was what most in the audience had come for. His two bodyguards took up positions either side of the stage and scanned the audience. I listened whilst watching these two, as well as the crowd. The BBC camera team started recording the speech.
Whereas the first speaker had come over like he was at Speakers’ Corner, and Mulvehill had spoken like the university lecturer he’d been prior to becoming an MP, in a voice calm and assured in his beliefs and principles, al-Ebouli took the stage like a fire-and-brimstone Old Testament preacher. He hectored rather than spoke, outlining why the capital would benefit from a Muslim mayor. He was bombastic in his delivery and I wasn’t convinced he was making many converts for the candidate he was speaking on behalf of. He went on for twenty minutes, and then the speeches concluded.
Time had been set aside for questions. The first speaker and Mulvehill answered questions addressed to them, clarifying points when required, though the first speaker didn’t say, when asked, what he’d do if the royal family refused to leave the palace. Al-Ebouli was then asked why anyone should support a candidate who had a terrorist apologist speaking in favour of him. He responded by asking if a terrorist was someone prepared to stand up for his religious beliefs and to free his religion from the yoke of western oppression, but then he praised anyone prepared to be a suicide bomber, glorified the “brave fighting men and women of my people”, and wasn’t slow in saying he hoped a jihad in the west would come sooner rather th
an later. Any tabloid hack present was getting tomorrow’s front page headline written for him. I suspected the BBC camera team were loving the speech. I looked at the crowd, and I tensed up slightly when he finished his oration, but nothing occurred except sporadic lukewarm applause.
After a few more questions to Mulvehill and the far-left candidate, the chairman brought proceedings to a halt at nine forty and, with the atmosphere generated by al-Ebouli’s rhetoric still crackling in the air, the crowd began to file away in an orderly fashion. Once the hall was virtually empty, DCI Bracewell said we’d wait five minutes before going to the car.
I went out the door into the car park first. Most of the crowd had gone by now but there were still about twenty people talking in small groups by their cars. I looked around but saw nothing threatening.
Then everything changed. The one percent kicked in with a vengeance.
As Mulvehill and his party walked towards their car, and al-Ebouli and his bodyguards crossed the car park five yards in front of us, two shots were fired in our direction, shattering the back windscreen on a nearby Peugeot. They sounded like firecrackers but I knew immediately what they were. A few women screamed, the noise levels increased and people in the car park began to panic and run in all directions.
The moment the shots had been heard, two members of the protection team had surrounded Mulvehill, crouched him down by bending him over and, at the same time, propelled him quickly forward, head down, and back into the school, followed by the rest of the party.
In the instant I heard the second shot, and someone yelling something sounding like “Aahh,” I produced my gun, dropped behind a nearby Volkswagen Golf and began scanning the immediate area to identify where the shots had come from, but in the dark it was difficult to see clearly. I shouted loudly to al-Ebouli’s entourage to stay down on the floor and cover their heads. Police began shouting instructions to others still in the car park, telling them to take cover and keep their heads down. Most didn’t need an invitation.
I could feel my heart racing but I felt oddly calm as I tensed up, waiting for further gunfire. I looked at nearby roofs and windows but saw nothing.
I could see al-Ebouli and his bodyguards lying on the concrete car park close together, with one attempting to cover al-Ebouli with his body. Crouched behind the VW, I looked around again, trying to identify where the shots might have come from. The car park was dimly lit, which didn’t help my sight as I scanned the environs for whoever was shooting. The school car park was overlooked by several houses and a parade of shops the other side of the road. I couldn’t see any open windows.
It seemed like it lasted an hour but was probably only about twenty seconds. No further shots were fired. If whoever had fired the shots was a pro, he was probably miles away now. I gingerly slid out from behind my vantage point, still looking around and pointing my service revolver. After a few more seconds I judged we were not in any imminent danger. Police had had the same idea as they began asking those who hadn’t run whether anyone was hurt. A woman was told she couldn’t take her car as the bullets were inside and police didn’t want the scene disturbed until more police arrived.
One of al-Ebouli’s bodyguards rose to one knee, looked around for a few moments and nodded at his boss. He stood and brushed himself down.
“Anyone hurt?” I enquired, approaching them.
“Yes,” the younger bodyguard replied.
He was holding his left shoulder and looked in some discomfort. I told a uniform to take him inside and see what was wrong.
“Was that intended for us?” al-Ebouli asked as his bodyguard was led away.
“No idea.” I was still scanning the immediate area for signs of danger, looking around as I spoke. “If you’re okay, you can leave. We’ll be in touch about taking statements later.”
He was unimpressed with that comment and said he wanted to wait to see how badly hurt his bodyguard was. I agreed he could, and he and the other bodyguard went inside the school. I followed him inside, briefly wondering, after what I’d heard him say earlier, how many people would applaud if the shot had been intended for him. This was a thought I resolved to keep to myself if I wanted to keep my job.
Bracewell and the other shadow, DS Stanley, came outside with Ian Mulvehill. He was looking remarkably unshaken for someone who might just have been the intended victim of a political assassination. He was as calm as he’d been when he was speaking earlier.
“You okay?” I asked.
He grinned. “Yeah, shaken but not stirred, I think.”
He looked at Bracewell and asked if it was okay for him and his party to leave, just as two police cars and an ambulance screeched to a halt nearby. Several uniforms and two detectives got out.
“Heard there’s been some excitement round here,” a detective said to Bracewell as the uniforms began to secure the area, moving people away from the car park, and two medics entered the school.
“Yeah.”
Bracewell explained the situation as we understood it. He then told me to take the detective to see al-Ebouli and the injured man and, as Bracewell was talking, I realised I knew this detective. DS Roberts.
I’d first encountered him when I was looking for an informant of my ex-boss, the much unlamented Commander Neville Thornwyn. The informant, Bernie Rayes, known to everyone as Bernie the Buck after his unsuccessful attempt at passing off poorly designed US dollar bills, was connected to a heist at a gun shop, and I’d found a dead body in his flat. Roberts had been the first detective on the scene and had done me a favour by allowing me first crack at Bernie in Kentish Town police station when he’d eventually been apprehended. Bernie hadn’t been responsible for the corpse in his flat, but had ultimately been found guilty of other matters and was currently residing in prison somewhere.
Roberts recognised me and we spoke briefly about what I was doing as part of the protection squad of a politician, rather than doing real police work, and the events of the evening to date. He didn’t seem overly sympathetic about the bodyguard’s injury.
The injured man was having his wound dressed by a medic. It was just a deep graze and no real damage had been done, but from the wails coming from the man, you’d think he’d had one of his kneecaps blown off. He was babbling in a language I didn’t understand and, from his facial expression, I suspected what he was saying wasn’t pleasant.
“It’ll sting for a while, but don’t worry, you won’t get gangrene. You’ll keep the shoulder and you’ll survive,” the female medic, a stern-looking fifty-something Irishwoman, said as she applied a strip of gauze over the cut on his shoulder. This was followed by a large plaster, which she pressed down hard on. He winced as though having teeth pulled without anaesthetic. She was unimpressed by his histrionics over such a small wound, and I suspected she was pressing harder than needed to make her point.
“Call that a wound?” Roberts sneered. “I’ve had shaving cuts worse than that.”
I laughed at this, as did the two police officers standing nearby, which drew a dirty look from al-Ebouli. I ignored it. His hurt feelings were of no consequence.
“Man up, pal.” Roberts was even less impressed than the medic. “You wanna be a bodyguard, you should be ready for situations like this.” He shook his head and walked away, muttering, “What a pussy.”
The police officer in charge said he’d talked to people in the car park but no one had seen anything, and officers were canvassing the locality to see if any passers-by could shed more light. Bracewell acknowledged their efforts and said, as there seemed no likelihood of any further incidents tonight, we should take Mulvehill home. Roberts said that was fine.
I sat in the back of the Land Rover with Ian Mulvehill, Bracewell sat in front and Stanley drove. Mulvehill lived not far away and we arrived at his flat a few minutes later. I got out first and scanned the area. Mulvehill got out without waiting to be told and went into the hallway of the block of flats he lived in, close to Primrose Hill. His flat was on the ground f
loor, overlooking the back garden. Against his wishes, he’d had bulletproof glass installed, which he’d thought an unnecessary burden on the taxpayer, and was unhappy about because it meant he couldn’t open his window.
I followed him into his flat, where he was greeted by his wife Jackie. She offered me a tea, which I accepted. We sat by the breakfast bar in his spacious kitchen.
I decided to chance my arm. “You’re a party leader. Why speak on a platform next to someone like al-Ebouli?”
“Why not?” he instantly replied. “We were both speaking on behalf of candidates in the mayoral election. He had the right to speak.”
I didn’t respond to what he’d said. I drank my tea.
“This country has a long and healthy tradition of allowing free speech for everyone, not just for those with access to the media. You old enough to remember how ridiculous Thatcher looked in the mid-1980s when she blocked Gerry Adams’ voice from being heard in the media?”
I said I was just being born around then.
“The IRA were never gonna go away just because Thatcher told the BBC not to broadcast their words. They were still there and, ultimately, they had to be included in the peace process, leading to the ceasefire and the Good Friday Agreement.”
It was interesting listening to him, but I remembered I was still on the clock, so, whilst he fielded a few phone calls from his press office about the events of the evening, I checked the rooms inside the flat, ensuring windows were locked and it would be easy to evacuate the flat should the need arise. I looked out the kitchen window and saw the car containing the two police officers who’d be positioned there overnight until the day shift came on duty. I didn’t envy them sitting in a police car all night. I’d done it. It’s dispiriting.
*
I was driven back to the school. DS Roberts was still on the premises.
“Officer canvassing just came across a couple. They said they saw someone entering through the back gate of that shop over there.” He nodded to empty premises about one hundred yards along the road. “They live round here and know the place’s been empty for a while. Initially they didn’t think anything of it, thought it might be the owner or someone like that. Bit later on they see the same person come running along the road carrying what looks like one of those cases snooker players carry their cues in. He gets into a car and drives off like a maniac. They didn’t think to get the registration number. They see police asking questions around the neighbourhood so they tell one what they saw. We’ve got a kind of description, build, height and all that. They didn’t get a good look at his face, they only saw him from side profile, but they think he was white.”
The Rules Page 2