She clicked her pen. ‘That is all.’
8.
DAY ONE
The chapel at Islington Crematorium was packed to standing room. Most of the Burlesque scene, friends, families, roadcrew, and promoters had come to give Fifi her final send-off. There was even a Facebook memorial page now, an electric shrine with 2,300 likes. And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest, I thought. Where had that come from? I couldn’t place it.
The music segued into Doris Day singing Que Sera Sera. Down at the front of the chapel, Bang-Bang leant her head on the decorated coffin and closed her eyes. She was smiling and talking to it… her. Presently she tapped the coffin as though it was a van ready for despatch and returned to my side in the pew. I looked at her curiously. She looked back.
‘What? I was just telling her she should thank her lucky stars I didn’t do the eulogy.’
‘Ah.’
Bang-Bang shuffled the ceremony notes. ‘I also told her that I would find who did this and kill them, in case you’re wondering.’
I turned and caught sight of DI Greg Rich five rows back, glaring at everyone and sundry. We were right at the front so he hadn’t spotted me yet, fortunately. He was there to keep an eye out for anyone unusual. It had been known for killers to attend the funerals of their victims. Unlikely, but still. ‘Christ. He couldn’t be more obvious if he was wearing a hi-viz.’
Bang-Bang was still reading the psalms. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve told the family to keep an eye out too.’ She looked up. ‘This is the first time I’ve ever been in a church. Well, churchy mausoleum thingy. How about you?’
I thought for a bit. ‘Yeah, me too. Strange.’
‘Still,’ said Bang-Bang while adjusting the knot of my tie, ‘nice to see my boy in a suit and not in the dock.’
9.
DAY TWO
Another morning began at the new office. I paced in front of my terminals and threw a paper dart at the conflict map on the wall.
It had taken us two hours to drive in. Beforehand, Bang-Bang had managed to blow up a henna hair-dye tube in the bathroom and left it looking like the Bates Motel. Her fringe was now conspicuously dyed tomato-sauce red. Maryam was sleeping on our sofa, complete with leg brace and an ashtray overflowing with dead spliffs. We really needed to move. The commute from East London to Feltham was ridiculous. But where to move to? Crystal Palace? I knew next to nothing about this area, I was an East Londoner. I’d have to consult with the other half. Where was she anyway? She’d borrowed the pool car to go somewhere in the MSSG base near Camberley. Who knew.
I leafed through my mail, some of which had arrived with me. The AA were refusing to pay out on my old BMW’s insurance. Worse, I’d just paid out the last chunk of hire purchase on that vehicle, which had been shot to pieces and become part of a major enquiry since last autumn. Thank God for pool cars.
I sighed and looked at the other mail and the stuff in my intray that needed signing off. KTS was now in the Richmond Building at MOD Feltham, recently vacated by the Defence Humint Organisation. They and the rest of the Joint Forces Intelligence Group had decamped to Cambridgeshire two months ago, probably because they’d got wind that us lot were setting up camp.
I had my own desk now up here on the top floor in head office country, with two spare seats if any Blackeyes should drop by. We shared floor space with KTS International and their cluster of massive satellite dishes, directly above us on the flat roof. Our new HQ was conveniently close to the Colonel’s house, but inconveniently bloody miles from mine. Still, there was a massive underused car park, we were now behind a tall razor-wired fence and armed security, and there was a half-decent snack bar outside on Elmwood Avenue.
I’d spent the last month helping to ensure our own bespoke fibre-optic internet lines were piped in correctly, so we weren’t reliant on the military’s standard DII secure intranet. I drew the line at a system that worked on Internet Explorer 6. The Red Cell section next door was kicking off. They wanted to use their own Linux and Firefox browser setup. Well of course they did. Meanwhile, the floor below me was full of RPOC’s meeting and briefing rooms, quietly getting on with what they did. And on the second floor, Milsim and the techies were setting up and cabling in, without a fuss. Horses for courses. The first floor was the domain of the old Tri-Service Employment Bureau, so that military and ex-military personnel could come and go without raising an eyebrow. The ground floor was all admin and H.R., and the personal domain of Toots Khani, Colonel Mahoney’s super-efficient PA. And in the basement, our servers hummed away in sleek ranks, day and night.
Ah, the servers. In addition to the false-flag attack, the Colonel had charged me with expediting the move of all those servers from the basement of Wardour Street to Feltham – in 48 hours. No pressure then. After the first sight of three Royal Signals guys trying to manhandle a server rack into the lift, I'd called time and said ‘Guys, take five and put the kettle on.’
I’d deployed my Dymo label maker, and labelled every component I could find in all the server racks, then started on the ethernet cables. By 1pm I’d started to go slightly mental and was stickering all the servers with the IPs they were reserved to. Only then had I called them back in to take the basement apart.
That had been last Monday. And now, all this murder had come down the pipe and the Home Secretary had started a clock.
A square blipped up on my PC flatscreen. A note from the IT weenies downstairs. It said ‘Job jobbed’. OK, strike one to us. Everything was cabled in. KTS was now a contractor for MOD special ops and hi-tech training, and also HQ of RPOC as reconstituted. RPOC, the ultra-secret Resistance and Psychological Operations Committee, was installed on the third floor, its briefing rooms tucked in behind the main lecture theatre. The note went on to sternly remind all cc’d that we were not to even write “RPOC” on so much as an office Post-It note. The note also read, in a calmer fashion, that we were now the first domestic licence holder for the Palantir system, apart from MI6, and we had the remit to show everyone how to use it. I’d spent the last 18 months trying to get it integrated, and the ball had been fully in my court the whole time. The IT weenie note read that we could now export Palantir data to the industry standard, Analyst’s Notebook. I breathed a sigh of relief.
As if on cue, another email popped up. The Colonel. It read simply ‘Palantir? Sounds hippie. My office. We’re go.’ Finally. The OK from the boss. I did a last check of my desk for anything I’d missed. There was a Post-it note from Toots reminding me to contact Tommy Robinson. The MOD security update was here, along with some new TANGENT files. I flicked through the first one. It said we’d finally recruited someone in ACPO. Well, that was a start.
A car alarm started honking out in the car park. Minutes later, Bang-Bang arrived looking frazzled, carrying a stack of notes. She plonked them onto my already overflowing desk and kissed me. ‘Hey hun! Toots said give these to ya. Sorry, dunno what’s up with the pool car’s alarm. All I did was put it in a reserved… anyway. Looks like we’re in J.G. Ballard country innit!’
‘That we are, doll, that we are. One lunchtime I’ll take you on a tour of Shepperton’s famous reservoirs.’
‘Oooh!’
‘C’mon babe, follow me. Let’s go see the Colonel. We need to call in a favour.’
She popped pink gum in appreciation and started doing a conga behind me as we went down the corridor. The people from Threat Assessment started laughing. She got twenty feet before Toots diplomatically steered her away; ‘Holly! Come and look at our new printer!’ And left me to my audience with El Jefe.
And El Jefe was in a good mood. He was adjusting the photo of the FRU Sergeant’s mess evening on the wall next to the TV. He stood back and we both admired the ranks of NCOs with him, as commanding officer, in the middle, all in their gamut of various regimental dress uniforms. Happy days. ‘Riz my boy. How’s Palantir running?’
‘Really well. The troops say it’s finally like being able to track people like in the Bourne
films, most of the time. Well, nearly as fast.’ I waved my hand. ‘You know.’ He knew. He sat down in his black leather office chair and swung it from side to side for a bit. I continued. ‘We had one of your old PIRA agent men in to look at it. Wanna know what he said?’
The Colonel tipped his head ever so slightly to the left. That indicated assent. ‘He said it makes all the data sing and dance.’
‘Good, Riz. You look troubled though. Spit it out.’ Fortune favours the bold, I thought to myself.
‘Boss. You just emailed go.’
He nodded.
‘Well, if me and Holly are going to be running around East London with a murder squad for the foreseeable, we’re going to need wheels. Cars.’
‘Car?’
‘Cars. Boss.’
In the silence that followed, I imagined ice shelves forming. Cracking. I stared out the window. The car park sure looked nice today. All was well in Feltham. I wondered what was on at the multiplex.
As the last set of polar bears slid over the imaginary glacier into the sea, the Colonel sighed and reached for a notepad. He talked as he wrote. ‘I hope you can appreciate the fact that the Black Thursday enquiry is rumbling on and I’m due to attend later today, so you’re not exactly item one in my intray.’
‘Got that. I can attend if you –’
He glared at me and I delayed that thought most ricky-tick. I stared out of the window and he returned to itemising the things that needed itemising.
‘Two… LOCAL… RENTAL, cars for duration of investigation, for the use of Mr and Mrs Sabir. All invoices to first floor. Signed, Colonel Mahoney, KTS.’
He pushed the paper towards me. ‘Hell, go to Rude Mercs, see if I care, we’re invoicing the Home Office anyway. See Toots.’
‘Boss.’ I grinned and made to leave.
‘And get a receipt!!’
I got as far as the door. ‘Young man…’
‘Boss?’ I came back in.
The Colonel had his polished brogues on the desk. ‘Just so you know. Two things. You’ll find a copy of the latest DA Notice in your intray. They’ve come to an agreement that what happened at Green Lane Mosque will stay buried for at least fifty years. Subject to review. Happy?’
‘You bet. What’s the second thing?’
He grinned. ‘I’m up before the Intelligence and Security Committee this afternoon.’
‘So? ISC doesn’t have any formal oversight of Defence Intelligence, only MI5, Six, and the Burrow. That’s our get-out-of-jail.’
He grinned even more widely, like a crocodile. ‘I know. But the Chief of Defence Intelligence has just given us the nod to, ah “assist the Committee in their work.” Anything you’d like to add to that mix?’
I thought about it. Then I got it. ‘So we’re in the magic circle, but at the same time, outside of it and beyond scrutiny?’
The crocodile grin grew to Zambezi proportions. He spread his arms like a jazz singer. ‘Your contribution is added. Get out of here Sabir, get to doing what you do best.’
‘Lovin’ your work.’ I got out of there.
10.
Bethnal Green police station custody suite. This nick was a rather drab, brown-brick pile, next to a park and lumped together with the local fire station. “Behold!” read a notice on the wall. “Fear from people should not prevent one from saying the truth if he knows it.”
It was a hadith, a saying attributed to the prophet Muhammad. There it sat among a rash of posters covering everything from domestic abuse to car theft.
Ah, car theft. The last time I’d been here, I’d been 15 years old and up on a taking and driving away charge. I looked, and felt, uncomfortable. Bang-Bang could tell and she gripped my hand. ‘Hey hun. We’re official now, remember?’
I smiled weakly and I cast my eye over the bored duty sergeant and the motheaten wall displays. Nothing there would improve morale, so I gave my briefing notes another look. We were about to be attached to a MIT, or Murder/Major Investigation Team. Forming part of the Homicide and Serious Crime Command, which was itself part of the Specialist Crime Directorate, there was one MIT for each Borough Operational Command Unit. MITs investigated, according to the dry blurb I had before me here, “cases of murder, manslaughter, attempted murder where the evidence of intent is unambiguous, or where a risk assessment identifies substantive risk to life.”
There was more. Murder investigations in London were undertaken by Homicide Command, which was split into three units, West, East, and South, each led by a Detective Chief Superintendent. We were in East. East had nine MITs, consisting of 33 staff, led by a Detective Chief Inspector, or DCI, who performed the role of senior investigating officer, or SIO. And so here we were. Two Ministry Of Defence investigators dropped into the arcane world of the Met.
Bang-Bang popped gum and leant on me. She nodded at the briefing notes. ‘Alphabet soup, innit?’
‘Yeah. I keep forgetting that the Army doesn’t have a monopoly on impenetrable jargon.’ And then suddenly Greg Rich walked in. Shit. He clocked me straight away.
‘Riz Haq. Just like old times. I hear you made good in the world and you’re working with us now.’
I stood and pointedly didn’t shake his hand. ‘You heard right.’
He looked at Bang-Bang. ‘This your solicitor?’
‘This is my wife. She’s here to keep an eye on me.’
He laughed a dead laugh and nodded at the desk sergeant, who came to life and handed us each our swipe card passes. We signed for them on a pad. DS Rich coughed. ‘OK. Follow me. I’ll show you to the MIT suite.’
‘We were waiting for DCI George.’
He stopped and looked at us quizzically. ‘DCI George is running late. I’ll show you in.’
The enquiry centre was a small-to-middling room like a college classroom on the second floor. Tables and desks were arranged in a square, crammed with computer terminals, screens and phones, and at the end, a couple of whiteboards waited. The windows were either tinted or hadn’t been cleaned for some time, I couldn’t tell.
We sat on one of the tables and tried to look inconspicuous. Lennie bustled in from the hall.
‘Alright. I’m DCI Lennie George lately of SCD7 as you know, and I’m Senior Investigating Officer for this enquiry. We’ve got a lot to get through so let’s get started. Most of you know each other by association or reputation, those of you that don’t I’ll effect the introductions now. Since the LSD fiasco, a lot of responsibility has devolved to staff at our level. Well, it’s had to, as most of our Police Superintendents are out of action. SCD1 lost its whole top tier that night and we’ve had to step up quite rapidly…’
He coughed and nodded in our direction. ‘Those two foxy-looking characters at the back are our guests from the Ministry of Defence. Don’t complain, they’re attached. They’ll introduce themselves in a minute.’
Silence.
‘And now Riz will give us a little heads-up on MOD’s input to this.’ Lennie nodded at me. The team was gazing at me with a mixture of curiosity and flat indifference. It was difficult to gauge their mood. So. I was going to have to explain who I was, what KTS was, why my wife and I were carrying sidearms, and on top of that why they had to look forward to a gang of lunatic
Muslim girls on their patch.
Wing it, Riz, I told myself.
I took centre stage by the main whiteboard and picked up the nearest Magic Marker. ‘Hello. I’m Riz,’ I began as I jotted mine and Bang-Bang’s names and mobile numbers on the top left of the whiteboard, ‘and I’m from a branch of the Ministry of Defence. This is my other half Bang-Bang, er, Holly, and she’s also MOD, Military Stabilisation Support Group, MSSG for short.’
Bang-B-ang waved from the desk she was sitting on and snapped gum blankly as she swung her white go-go boots. I carried on. ‘The Home Secretary has attached us to this enquiry due to several unusual aspects that she feels need our input.’
Silence. Keep digging mate, I thought. ‘OK. The nature of mine and Holl
y’s work for the MOD means we both carry firearms most of the time and are authorised to do so. Yes, we’re Muslim AFO’s, please don’t let that alarm you.’
The ghost of a chuckle. That was better.
‘To be honest, guys, I think the Home Office stuck us both in this one because we’re Muslims.’
Laughter. The tension receded.
‘More seriously – OK me and Holly both have experience in tracking jihadis, terrorists of all stripes. It’s not like we can see inside the mind of a serial killer, but… manhunting we can do. We won't get in the way though, we'll be in the corner, here.’
The mood was much lighter. I hadn't really wanted to tell them that between us we'd killed near-on thirty, forty... who was counting? And how did I feel about that? I decided to stop beating myself up as I was sure there were plenty of ex-squaddies in the building.
Suddenly Lynne spoke up and nodded her chin at Bang-Bang. ‘Holly, hi. Didn't I read your obituary last September?’
Bang-Bang eased herself off the desk she was perched on and replied. ‘Wasn't an obituary as such, just a mentioned-in-dispatches. I went away for a while. And then dipstick got me back!’ she grinned. Lynne looked nonplussed. Heh – welcome to our world, I thought.
And then Lynne sparked up again. ‘You also both got Queen’s Gallantry Medals, I recall.’
Bang-Bang and I glanced at each other. Oh, we’d have to watch this one. She didn’t miss a trick. I replied. ‘Yeah. All four of us did. But some deserved it more. Like those who died that day.’
Another silence. I waited a while and carried on.
‘Lastly. We may be liaising with other members of MSSG Blackeyes locally to get tasks done. They’re slightly unusual girls, but don’t let that phase you either. Any questions.’
Didn’t look like it. Lennie stood and swept his arm across the room. ‘OK this is for your and Bang-Bang’s benefit. I’ll now give you a precis of what a real Murder Investigation Team does and how. First things you need to take on board are one, the computer systems, and two, the sheer amount of paperwork. Not to mention the media, because I’m also the poor bastard that has to go on Crimewatch in a week’s time.’
Locked and Loaded: A Riz Sabir Thriller Omnibus Page 40
