He sighed loudly and nodded, dabbing a few tears in his eyes. “Okay.”
“Can you think of anyone with a grudge against Jamal who’d want to cause him harm? Has he ever received any death threats before?”
“No. Everyone liked Jamal.” He sniffed, then blew his nose loudly.
Not everyone, I cruelly thought, but didn’t say anything.
“Who would have known he was in there today?” I nodded towards the hall.
“Practically everyone associated with the campaign. Everyone helping to organise and run the campaign gets daily online bulletins saying where we’re likely to be and where to get hold of either Jamal or myself.” He sniffed loudly again. “He’s in the hall every day at some point. Details of what’s going on in the campaign are all up online on our website. Anyone can access them.”
“Who’d have known he was alone? The lady there” – I nodded towards Pam Lovett – “said the hall’s usually a beehive.”
“It is. I’m not sure why it was empty today.” He was blinking rapidly as he spoke, trying to block the tears from flowing.
“Does he keep a diary? Does he have his daily schedule written down?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I would have thought so. He’s very organised.”
“I’d like to see it, if you can get it for me.”
“Okay, I’ll try and get it.”
“Do you think he might have had a private meeting with someone today but not noted who it was?”
“It’s possible, I suppose, though we usually tell each other what’s happening, and I’d not heard if he was meeting with anyone today.”
“What about the press and television?”
“Same. We let them know where James is likely to be and at what time. If it’s a public meeting, we’d want TV cameras to be present, so they need to know in advance.”
“Talk of the press . . .” I sighed.
Over Jaser’s shoulder, another car pulled up next to his and Sally Taylor emerged. This was ominous. If she knew so soon, it wouldn’t be long before God knows how many other journalists would arrive and turn a murder scene into a three-ring circus. She saw the police cars and the ambulance and, looking around, she saw Qais Jaser talking to me and wandered across in our direction.
“Has the campaign received any death threats?” I asked Jaser.
“None I know of. We’d contact police if there’d been any.” “Going back to last night, what’s your connection to Khaled al-Ebouli? Seems odd you were at his meeting. I’d
have thought a true blue Tory like you wouldn’t be seen dead anywhere near someone like al-Ebouli,” I said quickly before Sally Taylor reached us.
“I have no connection to him.” He sounded exasperated. I was about to ask another question when Taylor appeared and stood facing Jaser.
“Jamal Khoudri’s been shot and killed, I’m told,” she began. She looked shaken.
“Yes,” Jaser said. “How did you know this? News hasn’t been released yet.”
“Would you like to make a statement?” She produced her handheld recorder and thrust it in his direction. I walked away.
She hadn’t told Jaser how she knew about Khoudri’s death so quickly, but I knew. She had a police source. Someone, either at control centre or a uniform at the scene, had contacted her or told her the situation. The practice of police tipping off journalists, and the sometimes unhealthy relationship between them, was officially frowned upon by leading media figures and senior police officers, as well as top politicians, and the recent Leveson inquiry had had plenty to say about the practice, but a few police officers were more than happy to pocket the freebies, and also the money, given by the tabloid press for exclusive tip-offs. She was the only hack I could see, so, for the moment, the Evening Standard had an exclusive for its mid-afternoon first edition.
I walked back towards Roberts, who was talking to a uniform by the car. Jaser would be easy to find if we needed to talk to him again about anything. But, as I was approaching the car, I became aware of footsteps running up behind me.
“Excuse me, Detective.” It was Sally Taylor. “Would you mind explaining why Special Branch is interested in Blatchford’s campaign?”
“How do you know we’re with Special Branch?” I asked.
“Yeah, we would,” Roberts said brusquely before she could answer. We got into the car.
“Does this have anything to do with why you were at Saturday’s meeting?” I heard her asking this as Roberts drove away, giving me little time to answer, leaving a frustrated Sally Taylor behind.
*
We parked outside Khaled al-Ebouli’s residence. Al-Ebouli himself was working at home today as he taught no classes Tuesdays. We approached the house.
Alimi Akeel was standing at the door. He recognised us and thrust his shoulders back and tensed himself, like he was expecting a fight. “What is it you want here?”
“You, sunshine.”
Roberts immediately leapt forward, grabbed Alimi’s wrist, twisted it and spun him round, pulling his arm up sharply behind his back. Alimi let out a painful cry.
“One of our colleagues was butchered last night, and we think you know who did it,” Roberts whispered aggressively in his ear, “and niceties go out the window when police get sliced up. You ready to talk?”
“Yes, yes.” Alimi grimaced in discomfort. “Let go of my arm.”
Roberts released his grip. “Let’s talk in the boss’s house, eh?”
I suddenly became aware of a small crowd standing nearby. Four men, all probably early to mid-twenties, had stopped to observe what was occurring. They were all dark-skinned and of Middle Eastern origin. None of them looked too friendly.
One man stepped forward. “Two against one. Why are you persecuting our friend?” He sounded aggrieved.
I took two paces towards them. “Walk away now, guys.” I put force in the comment whilst showing them my ID. “Don’t get involved; this isn’t your issue.”
“We’re not going anywhere until you tell us why our friend is being persecuted like this,” the same man said, moving forward slightly. He looked confrontational.
There was a stand-off for a few seconds. Roberts then approached the man who’d spoken and put his face about an inch away from his. He said something to the man I didn’t hear, but, whatever it was, the look in Roberts’ eyes told the man any confrontation would be unproductive. The man nodded towards his friends, and all four turned as one and walked away, occasionally turning their heads to give us the evil eye, showing they weren’t scared of us. I didn’t ask Roberts what he’d said. I could guess.
We were admitted into al-Ebouli’s’s home by a boy aged about ten. I asked where Khaled al-Ebouli was. He shrugged, staring at us with a blank expression.
“He does not speak English,” a female voice called out. “He should,” Roberts said.
She chose not to hear him. “My husband is in his office. Follow me.”
She led us along a corridor, through the kitchen, and down the short garden path where a small shed had been converted into an office. Al-Ebouli was typing on his laptop when we all entered his sanctum. He didn’t seem surprised to see two police officers. He settled back into his chair and thrust out his hands, as if to say, Well?
“A police officer died outside your meeting last night,” I began without any formalities. “He was killed.”
“I know. I’m very sorry,” he replied neutrally.
“Yeah,” Roberts sneered, “I bet you’re heartbroken.”
“CCTV identified Moussa Dhelkili outside the hall talking to two men who had their faces covered. Soon after, those two jokers were seen moving through the crowd towards the police lines, and just after that the officer was killed. I want to know who those two were.”
“So why come to me? I was inside the hall,” al-Ebouli replied calmly. “I had nothing to do with this man’s unfortunate death. Alimi was inside the hall with me.”
“Dhelkili works for you. He was at the meeting
and seen talking with two people, one of whom we believe is a viable suspect for killing a police officer. So, tell this muppet” – I nodded towards Akeel – “we want the names of those two characters.”
Al-Ebouli nodded. He then spoke rapidly in what I assumed was Syrian to Akeel, who responded. They went backwards and forwards for about ninety seconds, and neither man looked at us as they spoke.
“He says Moussa does not know them. He says he was just outside talking to a couple of people when these two men approached him, and they just began talking.”
“About what?”
“They wanted to know what was happening outside the hall, who was inside, that kind of thing.”
“So why the covered faces?”
“He doesn’t know.”
“There were also two other guys there, smartly dressed. Their faces weren’t covered up. Does Akeel know them?” Police knew who these two were. I was curious whether these clowns did.
“He doesn’t. He says they were just there. He also says he was only outside for a few minutes, keeping an eye on the crowd, before he entered the hall to stand by the stage and keep watch on the Israeli security officer who was in the audience.”
I must have looked surprised.
“Israeli security follows me everywhere I go, officer. Did you not know that?” Al-Ebouli was almost smiling as he spoke. “I have my own fan club inside the Mossad.”
I wasn’t surprised. In the Mossad’s wet dreams, al-Ebouli was dead in his grave, killed by a Mossad bullet. But, for the moment, I didn’t want to pursue this. “Not my concern. I wanna know about who killed our colleague.”
“Moussa also came into the hall a little while later, so neither man was outside when the policeman was killed. They cannot be blamed for his death.”
“So, your guy maintains he’s no idea who the two guys with their faces covered were. They were just there,” I reiterated.
“That would seem to be the case, officer.” Al-Ebouli sat up in his chair.
I didn’t believe him. I was convinced one or both of his bodyguards knew who the two men with faces covered were, but, short of using violence on them, there was nothing further to be gained talking to them, and there wasn’t yet enough to arrest them.
“I find out you’re lying, I’ll add obstruction and conspiracy to whatever charges are brought against you.” Roberts stared al-Ebouli in the eyes. We left, both frustrated and annoyed at what we thought was stonewalling.
*
Back in the Branch office, I opened up the site kept on prominent individuals inside the family album and brought up details for both Qais Jaser and Jamal Khoudri. Both men had been present at last night’s meeting and, given both men were involved in the campaign to have James Blatchford elected the Independent Conservative Mayor of London, I couldn’t grasp why they’d be present at a public meeting given by a prominent jihadist.
Qais Jaser was forty-eight and from a small town near Aden, in Yemen. His family’d moved to France when he was only four and, aged nineteen, he’d come to the UK to study International Relations at the London School of Economics. He was married with two children and was fluent in three languages. I was impressed; I struggled with English. After graduating with a Master’s degree, he’d obtained employ with a prominent Middle Eastern think-tank based in Westminster, the Kavanagh Lee Foundation, where he’d stayed until leaving to go to work in the private office of Christian Perkins shortly after the 2010 election. I noticed, as part of his duties with the Foundation, he made trips to the Middle East, particularly to Syria, at least once or twice every year. Mostly it was to speak at forums comprising top businessmen about geopolitical realities in the region. I wondered why he’d leave such a position to work for the likes of Christian Perkins, who probably thought Sinai was the plural of sinus.
Jamal Khoudri was of Syrian parentage, though he himself was born in London. He was forty-seven and also an LSE graduate, but in Finance and Economics rather than International Relations. He was employed by Jacobson’s, an investment bank in the City of London specialising in financing firms wanting to do business in the Middle East, but was currently on temporary secondment to help run James Blatchford’s campaign for Mayor. He had been married, but his wife had recently died in a car crash, and no other details had been given. There were no children.
I entered a few other names into the family album and cross-referenced them to ascertain any links between them. Jamal Khoudri and Alimi Akeel were second cousins. Dhelkili himself was English and had been a soldier of the Crown. My eyes opened wide in surprise when I spotted he’d been in the Marines at the same time as Richard Rhodes. Did they know each other? There was nothing on file suggesting any relationship between the two, but it was quite the coincidence.
There was better news concerning the suspected killer. CCTV had picked up the suspect running from Red Lion Square. He’d been trailed running along Procter Street, across High Holborn and entering the north side of Lincoln’s Inn. He’d removed the scarf from his face but still had the baseball cap pulled down and, as not all street lights were on and he was looking down as he ran, his facial features couldn’t be ascertained clearly. He was then observed colliding with someone unlocking a bicycle, stumbling down onto one knee. He’d got up and run off, and was seen getting into the back seat of a car parked by Lincoln’s Inn Hall, which then set off in the direction of Kingsway, went around the Aldwych and crossed over Waterloo Bridge. Inexplicably the car had gone off-radar around the Waterloo area, but we’d still got lucky because, though police had put out a message asking for this cyclist to get in touch with them, it transpired I knew the cyclist.
*
New Focus magazine had its offices on the corner of Gate Street and Whetstone Park, right by Lincoln’s Inn. Richard Clements, Smitherman’s son-in-law, had been working late and was unlocking his bicycle, chained to railings by the square, when a man ran between two parked cars and collided with him, stumbling forward and falling. Joggers were not unknown in this area, but rarely at night, and certainly not wearing denim jeans and a sweater. The man was holding something in his hand, though Clements wasn’t able to identify what it was. Clements had caught a brief look at the man’s face before he had turned and run, muttering something which sounded like an obscenity.
Curious, Clements had followed him towards the Inns of Court, on the east of the square, and seen the person getting into a car, which had then sped off.
This hadn’t resonated with him until watching BBC News at Ten, where the lead item had been the murder of PC Dan Jones, not too far away from the New Focus offices. He’d put in a call to me first thing this morning on my iPhone to tell me what he’d seen, but I’d not seen it as I’d been with Smitherman, then out with Roberts. When I finally checked my phone and saw the message, I returned his call. We arranged to meet.
Clements wasn’t an informer as such. I’d known him at King’s College, and it would be fair to say we’d not been friends. I’d thought then he was a loud-mouthed leftie, forever given to proselytising about whatever cause was the current flavour of the month in left-wing circles. However, I’d met up with him again nearly two years back, whilst investigating how his magazine had come to interview an IRA man, and a kind of friendship had gradually developed between us. He was a political journalist, and I pumped him for information once in a while, which in a couple of cases had been extremely significant. That he was also Smitherman’s son-in-law, given the polarity of their political beliefs, never ceased to amuse me. However, we both agreed neither of us wanted Smitherman to know we were friends, so neither told him.
I met Clements in a café near to his office, in Little Turnstile, the passageway connecting High Holborn to Lincoln’s Inn. It was popular with local office workers, and with me, because it had a real café ambience, rather than the bland and lifeless feel of a chain coffee shop. All hot drinks were made to order, as were the sandwiches and breakfasts, rather than being made the night before and then encased in cellop
hane twelve hours before consumption. It was always worth going out of my way to visit this café.
Clements was already there ordering a tea when I arrived, and he ordered one for me from the bleached blonde thirty-something woman behind the counter, who was making doe eyes at Clements, thrusting out her ample chest and salivating as though he were Johnny Depp. We sat at a table by the window.
He looked up and winked at the blonde as she placed two big mugs of tea on the table. She smiled coyly and returned behind the counter, whispering to the other woman who was making sandwiches and nodding towards Clements.
“She’s seriously hot for me, that blonde chick. That’s why I use this place. I wonder . . .” He grinned lecherously. “No, I’d better not. The old guy’d cut my balls off if he thought I was even thinking of cheating on Janet.”
I believed Smitherman would as well. He was fiercely committed to his family.
“Tell me what happened over there last night,” I began after a few pleasantries. “We think the guy who bumped into you could be the joker who killed PC Jones, or if he didn’t he’s at least a reasonable suspect, so we gotta find this guy. Describe him.”
He reiterated what had occurred. He’d just finished unlocking his bicycle and moving it away from the railings when he’d become aware of the sound of footsteps coming behind him from someone running quickly. Looking up, he saw a shadow coming towards him and, before he could move, the man ran into him and his bike and fell down. Clements had slipped back against the railings. He’d not seen his face for more than three or four seconds, but he thought the person concerned looked slightly dark-skinned, like a Greek or a Cypriot, and had dark hair. He assumed he was English but couldn’t be certain. He’d not seen the guy before around the area, and he’d not caught the registration of the car the man’d got into.
“Did he say anything to you?”
“Yeah. As he crashed into me and fell, I stood up straight and went to help him up. I asked if he was okay. He scrambled to his feet pretty quickly and said something sounding like leh lehizdayen. I hope I’ve pronounced it right.”
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