Black Quarry Farm

by Iain Cameron

  ‘That’s all I know.’

  ‘No, it’s not. You’re sounding like a witness who’s doing all she can to stop us sending her husband being sent down. Your husband is the victim here, Irene, and I am doing my best to find out who killed him. I would imagine you want the same thing, but it sure doesn’t feel like it.’

  ‘I do, I do. I loved Rob,’ She started to sob. ‘I think I still do.’

  Henderson passed her a handkerchief and said nothing for the next minute or two. He wasn’t sure if he’d get anything else when they resumed.

  ‘If you want us to catch the people responsible for killing Robert,’ he said, ‘I think you need to tell me what you think he was really involved in. It could be the reason why he’s dead.’

  She wiped her eyes. ‘He didn’t tell me straight out when I asked him, and of course, I asked him. I come from a hard-working family, and we know there aren’t any free lunches. Everything we’ve got, we earned.’

  ‘What did he tell you?’

  ‘I’m not stupid. When you look at Gohar’s big house, the cars he drives, the money Rob was throwing around, and the number of lorries and vans moving in and out of Haringey, the fabric business to me is just a front. It’s the responsible bit he uses to boost his standing in the community.’

  ‘He’s a pillar of the local community?’

  ‘You better believe it. The money to fund it all I thought at first came from trafficking women, but when I made a nuisance of myself, going into S&H a couple of times on flaky excuses, I realised the same women were always sitting at the machines, so I knew it wasn’t that.’

  ‘What is it then?’

  ‘I don’t know but I thought it had to be drugs.’

  ‘Did you know Ibrahim Nazari?’

  ‘What?’ For a moment she was thrown off balance by the sudden change of direction. ‘I knew him all right, the bloody lecher. We were all out in a restaurant one night and I felt a hand on my knee before travelling upwards under my dress. I looked over and saw Nazari smirking. I didn’t make a fuss, but I pushed his hand away and told him later, if he ever did it again, I would send my two boys round to change the shape of his face. I said when he was killed, more joking than anything else, it was because he must have tried the same thing on with Gohar’s wife, or his daughter.’

  ‘Cheema’s very protective?’

  ‘Oh, you better believe it. He’d do serious damage to anyone who messed with his family. To everyone, Nazari was this affable businessman, but in reality, Rob told me, he was once a senior member of Saddam Hussein’s personal bodyguard and an arrogant sod. He still had contacts all over Iraq. Putting two and two together and maybe making five, I think he sourced drugs or stuff that had been looted from rich people’s houses, shipped them to Pakistan, and hid them in Gohar’s lorries.’

  THIRTY-TWO

  ‘So, you’re telling me you think S&H Oriental Fashions is a front for a large drug smuggling operation?’

  ‘We don’t know it’s drugs for sure, but everything points to it,’ Henderson said.

  They were seated in Chief Inspector Edward’s office. Not at the coffee table and sofas over at the tall window, where she did her ‘softer’ discussions and socialised, but across the desk where serious business was considered.

  ‘You’ll need to go over it again, Angus, as I must be missing something.’

  ‘This all started with the murder of John and Lara Beech at Black Quarry Farm.’

  ‘Don’t remind me, the ACC asked me how we were getting on the other day. I told him their deaths were a mistake, an unfortunate one for the Beeches, but a slip-up nevertheless. The person the killers were after was Robert Saunders. Right so far?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the evidence for this assumption is?’

  ‘The Beeches checked out clean with no enemies. Robert Saunders booked the farm for the same week they did, but cancelled late in the day. Saunders was subsequently murdered.’

  ‘The cancelled booking does it for me. If he really wanted to stay there, why wouldn’t he have used a false name?’

  ‘We think he was on the run, hiding from the people who eventually killed him. He booked the farm either to test if his pursuers were close, or he really wanted to go there, but chickened out at the last minute.’

  ‘I’m convinced you’re on the right track there, Angus. Now, the gun used to kill Robert Saunders was a different weapon from the one deployed in the killing of the Beeches. What did you conclude?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine why they changed. Maybe they needed more firepower at the farm to deal with two people, or maybe they were testing out a new consignment.’

  ‘It’s probably not important. The key point is, the gun used to kill Robert Saunders was the same one used in the killing of Ibrahim Nazari.’

  ‘I thought at first the gun might have been rented, but changed my mind when we discovered one of Nazari’s main customers was S&H Oriental Fashions, the place where Saunders used to work.’

  ‘It’s quite a coincidence, I admit, and one we can’t ignore. Now, Saunders’ ex-wife, who received large payments from him every month, told you Nazari was once a cog in Saddam Hussein’s government. She suspected he had been using his contacts to source drugs or looted treasures. This is the leap I don’t get. You haven’t shown me anything to support it.’

  ‘The Iraqi connection has also been corroborated by the Kent force who tracked Nazari’s movements and found he was visiting Iraq much more than India or Pakistan. It explains the wealth of each of the players better than buying and selling textiles.’

  ‘If we assume, just for the minute, that Nazari was the supplier of illicit goods, and it’s a big ‘if’ as we don’t have any evidence to corroborate, this would give us two possibilities. One, he was in business with Cheema and the two of them were involved. Nazari was the man on the ground supervising shipments, with Cheema the man in the UK, meeting the deliveries and distributing the goods. Option two, Nazari was smuggling the goods onto Cheema’s lorries, something Cheema knew nothing about.’

  Henderson could see where the Chief Inspector was going with this. He’d come to see her after talking to Irene Jennings, looking for authorisation for a raid on S&H Oriental Fashions. It would be a major operation with an armed response team and at least another twenty-five officers present.

  To the CI’s credit, she was exploring all the avenues, trying to find out if Cheema and S&H were innocent parties in a wider conspiracy. If she did spot something, it would save them the major embarrassment of rolling up mob-handed only for the Haringey building to be doing what it said on the box.

  ‘I don’t see much to support option two,’ Henderson said.

  ‘Why not? It’s happened before, people smuggling parcels into lorries heading to the UK from France. In which case, Nazari was shot because Cheema found out what he was doing and didn’t like it.’

  ‘And Saunders?’

  ‘Perhaps he was involved too or turning a blind eye.’

  ‘Although Nazari was well-off, I think the real money resides at the S&H side of things. Cheema lives in a huge house, they all drive flash cars, Saunders who used to work there, was rich.’

  She looked pained, suspecting something was going on, but unsure how to prove it. ‘Granted, but it’s not enough. I’m afraid I can’t authorise a raid.’

  Henderson wasn’t expecting this. They’d raided other places with less. He needed to regroup, fast, and get something out of this.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You’ve proved the link back to Cheema and S&H Fashions, but this is where it stops. There is something going on, but it could be anyone working for him, or something different altogether. I’m just not convinced a raid on the premises is justified at this stage of the investigation.’

  He thought for a moment. ‘Okay, if I can’t have a raid, how about the next best thing. I’ll put S&H under surveillance. Maybe then I can gather enough evidence to prove a connection.’

>   She paused for a moment. ‘I’ll support a small operation, no more than two shifts of two officers, and for no more than one week. Talk to the Met first. Remember, this is on their patch.’

  **

  Henderson returned to his office after his meeting with CI Edwards in sombre mood. Perhaps he’d been too close to the evidence to see some of the links he once thought to be solid were supported by supposition, a dangerous game if they guessed wrong.

  He needed more, and the optimist in him now believed surveillance could provide it. He sat down and plotted out how it would work and who he could use to staff it. He finished and put his pen down when an idea came into his head. If the Met had S&H on a watch list perhaps he could persuade them to raid it. Walters had done a quick search, but it wouldn’t do any harm to double-check He picked up the phone and called Dave Tuttle, a mate in Organised Crimes in London.

  They traded pleasantries for a few minutes before moving to the substance of his call.

  ‘The murder case I’m working on has led me to a company in Haringey, S&H Oriental Fashions. I think it’s a front. It could be drugs or looted war treasures, I’m not sure.’

  ‘I’ve heard of them. We looked at them a few years back, as they bring goods over from India and Pakistan on a regular basis, well-known hotbeds of cocaine and heroin trafficking but we found nothing.’

  ‘Can you tell me if you or anybody else have conducted or are scheduled to conduct an operation there?’

  ‘I can get a quick answer for you one way or the other,’ he said. Henderson could hear his fingers tapping a keyboard. ‘If I do a search on the name and it comes up with zilch, we’re doing nothing. If, on the other hand, there’s an operation planned, there will be a flag against it, and if it’s red-flagged, we’re both fucked as even I can’t access it. National Security or some other crap.’

  ‘What’s happening, Dave?’

  ‘Hold on to your sporran, Angus, I’m waiting for a response from this bloody system, it’s been slow all day.’

  Henderson was about to say something when Dave said, ‘Ah here we are. Nothing came back. Zilch. You’re in the clear to mount your op, but you need to touch base with the commander in Tottenham; he’ll be mightily pissed off if he sees some of your lot parked in his patch. See you later, mate.’

  Henderson took Dave’s advice. After checking who was in charge at Tottenham Police Station, he called him. It was not an easy posting for any copper, as it was a poor area in relation to the rest of London, and suffered from significant levels of social degradation and racial tensions.

  ‘You want to conduct a surveillance operation on a business in Haringey?’ Superintendent Stevens said when he finally got through to him.

  ‘That’s right, sir.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘S&H Oriental Fashions.’

  ‘I know it. They’re on Vale Road if I’m not mistaken.’

  ‘Quite right.’

  ‘Now, I also know it’s owned by Gohar Cheema. He’s a bit of a celebrity among the Pakistani community around there, employing as he does so many local women. I’ve met him several times myself at various functions. A charming man with an ebullient personality, if you catch my drift. Are you suggesting he’s involved in something dirty?’

  ‘I can’t say for sure, but all indications are that something illegal is going on there.’

  ‘And four people are dead as a result of it?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘What form of surveillance did you have in mind?’

  ‘Twenty-four-hours in cars around the building.’

  ‘I think I can help you there, Inspector. A block of flats which I believe backs on to the rear of their building has recently been vacated pending redevelopment. The developers gave us the keys in case of any break-ins and such. I could let your officers into the building. They could use it to cover the rear while your other people in cars watch the front.’

  ‘That would be very helpful, sir, thank you.’

  ‘As much as I’m a regular attendee at local social functions, Detective Inspector Henderson, I am not in their pocket, no matter how many canapés or glasses of wine they offer me. If anyone in my little patch of north London is up to any wrongdoing, and I would put four murders at the top of the list, I feel obliged to offer you whatever assistance I can.’

  ‘Thank you, sir, it’s much appreciated.’

  THIRTY-THREE

  He sprinted upstairs to his bedroom, grabbed the papers and books he needed, and threw them in his bag. He ran downstairs, opened the front door and, after shouting, ‘Bye, bye Mama,’ headed outside.

  Faisal Baqri walked down the street towards the tube station, his headphones playing a compilation he’d made called, Songs from the Musicals. He was a student at the Royal Central School of Speech and Dance and he’d told his Mama he was going to college. She knew term had finished a month or so ago, but he told her today was extra tuition.

  In fact, he was heading out to an audition. Not just any audition, but one for a major new song and dance production in the West End, using songs from a variety of famous musicals. He wasn’t so arrogant to believe he would land one of the key parts, he was only a second-year student after all, but any part in the chorus would be a start. One of his dance tutors, Leena Rynsburger, who told him he danced with flair and imagination, and knew the director, had said she would put in a good word for him.

  He didn’t tell his Mama where he was going this Saturday morning as she and Papa didn’t approve of him dancing. He’d always had a beautiful voice. He sang at weddings and funerals and in singing competitions put on in the community centre, and everyone believed one day he would be a successful singer. Not a pop singer, as many of his friends wanted to be, but his parents wanted him to become a cabaret singer.

  No way would he be doing this, even if cabaret singers were still around, which he doubted. With a little persuasion his parents had allowed him to enrol in the Central School. They were under the impression he was there to develop the quality of his singing, but no, he went there to improve his acting and dancing abilities.

  He walked along West Green Road towards Seven Sisters tube station. It was early morning and many shops were not yet open, although some shopkeepers were out soaking the pavement in front of their premises and brushing it down. He crossed the road and headed for the bus stop. He half-expected to see a gaggle of hopefuls standing there, heading to the same audition as he was. He could see no one, making him check the date of the audition for the tenth time on his phone. He confirmed it was the right day and wondered why many people from Haringey couldn’t see themselves singing and dancing in the West End as he did.

  When he looked up from his phone, a dirty white van had stopped in front of him, blocking his view of the shops on the other side of the street. Before he realised something wasn’t right, someone punched him in the face, pulled him towards the back of the van, and threw him in.

  He wasn’t unconscious, but whether in a state of shock, or his body telling him to stay still, he didn’t know, but he couldn’t move his hands or feet. This had happened before when someone had put a bullet in his leg. The limp had gone but the memory of the pain, like someone taking a red-hot poker and sticking it into his thigh, would never be forgotten.

  They’d shot him, he was told, because he was associating with a girl. He didn’t have a clue what he had done wrong then, and he didn’t understand it now. Yes, he had talked to her at college, they had lunch together, sometimes went to the cinema where they held hands, nothing more, and they’d shot him for it. He’d seen her since, he couldn’t help it as she was involved in many of his classes, but he’d learned his lesson and kept away.

  When his muscles returned to normal he sat up, but he was shivering. It wasn’t the coolness of the van, which would have been a welcome break from what was developing into a hot day outside, but fear. The last time, fear and guilt had overwhelmed his senses. This time, he still felt fear but he knew he
hadn’t done anything wrong.

  The van stopped. They hadn’t been driving for long, perhaps ten or fifteen minutes. The side was thrown open and now he’d had a chance to take a look at the men. They were of Pakistani origin as he was, but both men were big and muscled. He couldn’t be sure, but were they the same people as last time?

  ‘Out!’

  He sidled towards the entrance when one of them reached out, making him flinch. Instead of receiving another punch in the face, he grabbed his shirt and pulled him out of the van, his shin banging against the side of the bodywork. They were in a warehouse. Was it the same one as before? It was small and devoid of much except bits of dark machinery lying in corners. The gaps in the walls and holes in the ceiling made him think it had been abandoned, and there was a smell he couldn’t place, perhaps petrol, or vegetable oil.

  The warehouse included one further item, one which he couldn’t see at first as his view was blocked by the van. It was a chair. When he got closer he could see it was anchored to the floor and there was a piece of nylon rope hanging over the back.

  He was thrown into the chair and, with a deftness suggesting a job done many times, he was tied to it.

  ‘What’s going on? Why am I here?’

  ‘You’ll find out soon enough.’

  Both men turned and started walking towards the van.

  ‘Where are you going? I have done nothing wrong!’

  Without another word, they climbed into the van and drove away. Moments later, the door of the warehouse closed, and he was left in darkness.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Henderson headed into the centre of Brighton at lunchtime and parked in the Churchill Square car park. He walked along Bond Street, Gardner Street, and after crossing North Road, along Kensington Gardens. About halfway down, he turned into a restaurant called Veggie Bites, one he’d never been in before, boasting Vegan lunches and all manner of things made with lentils. He wasn’t so fond of them, and all things green, unlike Gerry Hobbs who now seemed to be embracing it all with the gusto of man who had just stared death in the face.