Locked and Loaded: A Riz Sabir Thriller Omnibus

by Charlie Flowers

  ‘No dramas. Army family and all that.’ He wrapped bearish arms around us. ‘Now, introduce me to your respective parents and relatives properly. This is my first Mirpuri wedding.’

  I laughed. ‘Oho Rakesh, you ain’t seen nothing today yet. Let us be your guides…’

  Fuzz walked back, with a pair of holsters in her hands. ‘You two’s wedding presents. I should’na but I’m gonna.’

  Bang-Bang took them off her. ‘Awww. How sweet. Look at these darling, they clip inside your belt.’

  ‘Yes.’ I said. I tried mine, it fitted. I nodded at Fuzz, who grinned with gappy teeth.

  Mrs Kirpachi extracted herself from the aunti-ji’s grip and tugged at our arms. ‘Come with me and wash your hands, you two. We’re making Gulab Jamuns. You can help.’

  We were dragged into the clang and steam of the kitchens, where a horde of all the aunti-jis we hadn’t noticed yet were battering Gulab Jamuns, those sickly-sweet dumplings that had plagued my childhood, into life. I stopped and raised my hand. ‘Hang on a minute. WE’RE THE BRIDE AND GROOM! Why are we cooking? C’mon babe.’

  I grabbed Bang-Bang by the hand and hustled her back out into the banqueting hall. ‘I will never understand our parents, Holly. Staff, at our own wedding.’

  ‘Yeah.’ She pointed to her friends’ table. ‘I think we’ll hide there.’

  The corner tables were a mishmash of Bang-Bang’s school and burlesque friends, stars of the West End, and Sasha and the few survivors from the battle of Green Lane Mosque. The tables had been organised by Bang-Bang’s old schoolfriend Fifi Blitz, who was conspicuous by her absence.

  I sat and let the stories wash over me. Sasha and co recounted the battle to an awestruck audience, and Bang-Bang’s schoolfriends told me how she and Fifi had been the doyennes of Havering College. High-fliers, until Fifi had got Bang-Bang into burlesque and she’d ditched trying for a degree and the BAE Systems graduate programme.

  All this and much more. I was still trying to line this up with the fact that she was two years younger than I thought she’d been. Never mind the fact that she’d disappeared to Japan for a year. What was all that about? I picked at the cutlery in front of me and tried to make sense of it. Japan. Damn.

  ‘You must be the lucky husband’, said an incredibly posh voice to my left. I dutifully looked left. A rather stern lady was regarding me over her spectacles.

  ‘Erm. Yes. Hello. Yes, I’m the lucky husband. I’m Rizwan.’

  ‘I’m Mrs Grace. I was Holly’s French teacher.’

  Oh crap.

  ‘She was such a credit to the school at French, Computing… Applied Science…’ my new acquaintance cast her eyes over the proceedings. ‘But Rizwan, I could never really get through to her. The entire time she was also a member of this unruly rabble,’ she waved a dismissive hand over a raucous table of Blackeyed Girls, where Maryam was throwing olives at an increasingly pissed-off Mishy, ‘and just coasted. If only she’d committed herself. And those tattoos, and that nose-ring.’ Mrs Grace shuddered. ‘I really don’t see why the young feel the need to adorn themselves like savages.’

  Savages. Yeah, that was about right, I thought. Mrs Grace suddenly gripped my arm in the way only teachers can do. ‘Rizwan. Is she happy? Is she making something of herself?’

  I smiled down at her. ‘Oh yes. Rest assured she is, Mrs Grace. She’s a credit to the nation.’

  She looked relieved. ‘I heard her French came in handy recently? You were both abroad?’

  This was getting surreal. ‘Yes Mrs Grace. It came in very handy indeed. And thankyou for teaching her to such a high standard. It saved lives.’

  She blinked for a while, trying to process this blindside information. Finally her mouth started working. ‘Good. I hear you both work for the Ministry of Defence now.’

  ‘That’s right…’ I tailed off because at that point we were both distracted by the sudden appearance of Alan Carr at the burlesque table. Mrs Grace looked perplexed. ‘Is that, that man from television?’

  I grinned. ‘Yes it is, Mrs Grace. Showbiz.’

  In the meantime, Bang-Bang was sat there across the table looking moody. Fifi hadn’t turned up. I looked at the coterie of artistes. I called over. ‘So… what? Is Fifi like the Baron von Richthofen of burlesque then?’

  ‘You don’t understand. She always shows.’

  She started stabbing buttons on her smartphone, listened, and grimaced. ‘Voicemail. Again.’

  I made my way over and placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘Babe. It’ll be OK. There’s always an explanation. And we’re going to be out all night tonight, I’m sure she’ll catch up. OK?’

  She puffed out her cheeks. ‘S’pose. Still, it would have been nice.’ She brightened up. ‘You’re right, of course. I should stop stressing. Plenty of other things to do!’ She put another palmful of bright pink gum into her mouth, chewed it slackly and blew a big pink bubble. It popped just as my mother’s cousin Nisa hove into view.

  ‘Scandalous!’ said my mother’s cousin Nisa, and we were grabbed and hauled towards their table. ‘What’s scandalous?’ I asked as we sat and my mother’s posse fussed around us. They’d formed a gaggle around the Colonel’s wife Sandra at the other side of the table. Sandra looked, and probably felt like, the spot on a domino at this moment in time.

  ‘Yeah, what’s scandalous?’ Bang-Bang repeated, chewing that gum, and caught Sandra’s eye. We can rescue you in a minute, that look said.

  ‘What Ishtiaq did!’ Nisa exclaimed. Who the hell is Ishtiaq, I didn’t ask. ‘He came back from Karachi with a new bloody wife isn’t it!’

  This started them all off again. I instantly regretted sitting down. Bang-Bang stood and held a hand out to Sandra. ‘Come,’ she beckoned with a hennaed hand, ‘allow the anointed Bride and Groom to show you around. It’s less of a family tree, more a ball of string.’

  Sandra was looking askance at us as we bantered and squabbled over the wedding presents. ‘David told me that this is an arranged marriage, is that right?’

  I nodded. ‘Yep, since our teens. Our families set it up. It’s just the way it’s done.’

  ‘And you’re happy with that?’

  ‘Course we are!’ Bang-Bang beamed.

  I poked her. ‘Shame the child-bride here fudged her age though.’

  An uncle slapped an envelope into my hand. I showed this to Sandra. ‘This is Nenthra. Wedding money. All the biraderi chip in. Bit like in Goodfellas.’

  Bang-Bang slapped my arm. ‘exactly like Goodfellas! Hey, come and meet my cousin Pauly.’

  Sandra looked nonplussed. I rescued the situation. ‘My other half’s joking, Sandra.’

  ‘Ah.’

  Bang-Bang held one hennaed, blinged-up hand to the party lights and admired it for a bit. Then she turned to Sandra and carried on the field report. ‘For Mirpuris, Izzat – honour – is everything. This wedding... well, for our extended family it's a chance to put one in the eye to all the other castes above them.’

  I nodded. ‘One for the artisan caste, this is. Hence all the bling.’

  ‘It's like weddings everywhere really,’ said Bang-Bang, ‘an excuse for our mothers to try to outdo each other. Speaking of which...’ she went in search of her parents.

  Sandra watched her go. Bang-Bang danced through various members of our gang and started leading some of them in that Aaja Nachle dance across the floor. The band played.

  Sandra looked at me with a raised eyebrow. ‘You happy now?’

  ‘Of course, Sandra. This is it. We’ve literally crawled through blood to get to this day.’

  ‘Good. I heard you were busy this morning.’

  She was looking out across the banqueting hall without an iota of emotion. I shrugged. I figured you didn’t stay married to someone like Colonel Mahoney for thirty years without becoming an unofficial keeper of secrets.

  ‘Yeah. We were busy. A lot of targets died.’

  She smiled. ‘I feel safer already.’

  Bang-Ba
ng came back giggling.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You're not gonna believe this. Your Mum and Dad just asked me if I want the honour of setting off all the fireworks in their back garden later. They reckon that I'd have never seen an explosion like it.’

  We both started laughing.

  6.

  Dawn broke on the littered wasteland of my lounge. I blinked and scratched my head. The sun streamed in through the windows. Heck. Breakfast was the only survival option.

  The afterparty had been at the White Swan, and if the reception had been messy, the club made that look like amateur hour. We’d had the lot – drinking games, people volunteering to DJ, which had annoyed the name DJs, a few punchups during the auntie-jis dancing and one massive one when Calamity had presented us with a banjo “in honour of cousins marrying”. The banjo ended up smashed as Bang-Bang and Calamity rolled around on the floor punching each other and pulling each others’ hair.

  Maryam had tried to hijack a cab. The gang had decided to completely ignore any conventions that might apply to a newly-wed couple and it was all back to mine. I dimly recalled more beer, DVDs, a bleary row with Bang-Bang because she wanted to move her dad’s tool shed en masse to our new house… we hadn’t even decided whether we were going to move. Or had we?

  Christ. It looked like she’d gone out to the shops already. Something about there being no toilet paper in the entire place. It was coming back to me. Maryam was snoring on the carpet by my feet. She still had a spliff in her hand. Calamity seemed to be asleep on the sofa under a double duvet. The wall TV was paused on Call of Duty Modern Warfare. Before me on the lounge table were the controllers, a pistol interface, Bang-Bang’s AKSU, and my Taurus Judge .410 shotshell revolver which should never leave its drawer.

  ‘Which one of you deadbeats has had the guns out?’ I said to the room; the wall.

  ‘Incoming’ mumbled a voice from under a duvet. I picked my way over the bodies and empty cans and stumbled back into the kitchen. There was only one cure for this hangover – Bang –Bang’s Mum’s curried scrambled eggs. I started assembling the ingredients, shouted over my shoulder ‘Troops! I’m cooking scrambled eggs!’

  I winced. Too loud. I fumbled in a kitchen drawer for painkillers, gulped some down and got the kettle on. My phone was buzzing on the worktop. I looked over. The Colonel. For the third time. Fuck’s sake, this was my first day as a married man. What did he want that was so urgent? He could wait.

  This was a simple recipe – three eggs, butter, some salt, a level teaspoon of curry powder, and some fresh chopped coriander. Fresh chopped coriander…

  My brain began working again and I made my way back through the lounge to my window boxes. I cracked the lounge windows. Fresh air, and not before time.

  I was snipping at the coriander box when the door opened and Bang-Bang came in muttering to herself in Urdu. She went straight to the kitchen. I followed to see what the fuss was, thinking it was about the shops, or something from last night. I was wrong. She was holding a copy of today’s Tower Hamlets Recorder at me. I looked at the headline, and the photograph of… Fifi. I went cold.

  Bang-Bang’s face was set and grim. Finally she spoke. ‘Morning, husband of mine. No wonder we couldn’t find her, Riz babe. She’s been murdered.’

  7.

  We met Colonel Mahoney in the lobby of the Home Office building on Marsham Street. He walked us to the lifts. A guard with a key unlocked the right-hand lift, messed with the controls, and indicated we should board.

  The Colonel hit the button for the top. I waited till we were on our way and then spoke. ‘OK. Remind me why she’s sent for us and what we have to do with a murder? This is Met jurisdiction, surely?’

  He smiled mirthlessly. ‘We’re needed. You’ll see why.’

  I watched the floors stream by. ‘Fair one.’

  I suddenly remembered something and stuck my hand out palm outwards. ‘Holly. We’re meeting the Home Secretary. Gum. Spit please.’

  She spat the gum into my hand and grinned. The Colonel gave a despairing look skywards. The doors opened onto the plush carpeting of the top floor.

  We turned right and walked. ‘Holly babe, listen. No touching technological stuff, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  The Colonel looked down at her. ‘You haven’t met the Home Secretary yet, have you Holly?’

  ‘Nope. What’s she like?’

  ‘Like Rosa Klebb with better shoes.’

  The Home Secretary was at her desk, signing her way through a sheaf of forms. Intercept warrants? Who knew. In the corner, like Lewis Carroll’s Cheshire Cat, sat a very rarely-sighted beast indeed. The Cabinet Secretary. The most senior civil servant in the country. He said nothing and studiously made notes as we gathered around the desk.

  The Colonel cleared his throat and began to introduce us, but within half a second, the thousand-watt politician focus had settled on Bang-Bang and the Home Secretary was around the table giving her the full handshake grip.

  ‘And you must be the famous Holly!’

  Bang-Bang took her hand and just smiled back, with a wonky look. The Home Secretary’s gaze fell on Bang-Bang’s tattooed arms, and then on the Colonel and me. ‘Great work, both of you. Great work! And congratulations on your marriage. Shame about the Americans but they should have thought about what they were biting off to chew. Well done. Now…’ She returned to take station behind her desk. ‘Please, sit. Have a look at these.’

  Some folders were slid our way.

  ‘Photos from the two crime scenes. I’m sorry Holly.’

  Bang-Bang shrugged. The Home Secretary was talking to the Colonel. ‘In case you’re wondering, Philip has signed off on this, so you’re cleared to work with us for the duration and…’

  But I was watching Bang-Bang out the corner of my eye. Her fingers were pressed white on the colour blow-ups of her murdered friend and there was an expression of silent fury on her face, which passed as though it had never been there. Presently she smiled and looked at us.

  ‘Her name was Fifi. Fifi Blitz. Riz shohar meray, what do you see?’

  I leant in and looked and she took my arm. A dead girl, her throat and wrists cut, white as paper and glassy-eyed in death. I sensed the Colonel watching me with interest. Something about the knife wounds nagged at me. But for the life of me I couldn’t think what. The whitewashed wall behind her was stickered and flyered with several layers of posters, bill stickers…

  The Home Secretary had turned her focus back to the Colonel, together with its coaxial politician charm. ‘David. It’s been so hectic. How was the move to Feltham? How is the new setup suiting you?’

  ‘They have us at the end of the main wing. To be honest Ma’am, it’s a bit like being AirTanker Ltd.’

  They laughed. The Cabinet Secretary scribbled with his LeBlanc pen. I was turning the photos, away from the partials of the corpses. I didn’t want to look at that. This was from the first crime scene. There. On the walls. A black-and-yellow sticker with craggy writing. Hard to make out, but – ‘Same sticker. Got a blowup?’

  ‘Unfortunately not, as it was two separate teams and they didn’t see it as significant.’

  I did. I recognised the style. ‘These are al-Muhajiroun stickers.’

  The Home Secretary just nodded at me. The Colonel slid another folder in my direction. ‘You and Holly will be attached to the Murder Investigation Team, and you’ll like this bit – it’s headed up by Lennie George. We had to move him away from the Flying Squad to somewhere where there was less heat.’

  We grinned. We liked Lennie. ‘Gambling again?’

  He nodded. ‘‘Fraid so, he’s into all kinds of gangsters for all kinds of debt. You two look after him, OK?’

  We nodded back. He continued. ‘You may also recognise his second-in-command, Greg Rich.’

  I felt myself blanch. ‘Oh for fuck’s sake boss! Sorry Home Secretary. He’s the one who kept nicking me!’

  The Colonel was laughing. The bast
ard had got me again.

  ‘Boss, if he was any more bent kids would slide down him on coconut mats. He’s a racist, bent, bigoted…’

  ‘OK Riz we get it. Have you still got your notes from your Snowdrop training?’

  ‘Yes boss. Remember it all like yesterday.’

  The Colonel was referring to the RAF Police, colloquially known as the Snowdrops. Shortly after being sprung from prison and inducted into the Colonel’s outfit, I’d been sent on two courses – six months with the Intelligence Corps at Chicksands, and then six more months and an operational tour with the RAF Police. The course at Chicksands had covered headquarters staff work, agent-handling and interpreting intelligence; the course at RAF Halton had covered everything from criminal law and investigations, to advanced driving.

  Technically, my fifteen months training with al-Qaeda had got me to section commander and intelligence operator level, but al-Qaeda didn’t give out certificates and the MOD wouldn’t have recognised them if they did. So back in I went.

  The Colonel was talking. ‘Aaanyway - you’ll be based with the MIT at Bethnal Green police station. You know where that is.’

  I did. ‘Sure that’s wise? It’s about half a klick from the building we just demolished.’

  ‘It’s the only station in the area with any spare room for the team and its gear, as all the other local nicks have been commandeered by SO15. Can’t imagine why.’

  Bang-Bang and I suddenly found the curtains and decor incredibly interesting. The Colonel continued regardless. ‘Look on the bright side you two, it’s not Limehouse nick. And the canteen has 5 stars from Scores on the Doors.’

  The Home Secretary was tapping her pen down a sheet of paper on her desk. It looked like a schedule and she seemed to be counting backwards to herself.

  She looked up. ‘It’s ten days till I address the Conservative Party spring forum. So you have ten days to fix this and bring me a result. I have every confidence in you, Colonel Mahoney, and your team.’