Locked and Loaded: A Riz Sabir Thriller Omnibus

by Charlie Flowers

  His arm hit my chest. His left arm had also nearly hit Bang-Bang’s chest but she’d stopped slightly short and was glaring at it. I watched her out of the corner of my eye and slowly, imperceptibly shook my head from side to side. She caught the gesture.

  ‘OK Lennie, patterns.’ I replied. First, lecturers and students heading from college.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘It’s the early evening, and you can spot them by the blue ID badges they’re wearing round their necks.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  Bang-Bang had stepped backwards and was glaring at the populace rather than Lennie.

  I continued. ‘Sure. Restaurant hawkers, but only outside the average restaurants. There, there… and there.’

  I pointed them out. ‘Also, Muslim people, heading south to mosque for prayers, and hipsters going north to the market area. The tight trousers are a giveaway. And finally – that bloke standing by the graffiti. He’s an undercover copper.’

  Lennie laughed. ‘You can tell?’

  ‘Mate, I can spot undercover Old Bill at a hundred yards. You guys always wear the same jackets and boots.’

  Lennie nodded. ‘OK. Holly?’

  She stood, popped a bubble of gum, thought a bit, and replied.

  ‘Junkies, heading up the road to get their fix.’

  Lennie and I both burst out laughing. Lennie broke the laughter. ‘How?’

  Bang-Bang did an impersonation of a heroin addict, scratching at her arms and dropping one leg into a limp. ‘They’re always the same…’ She tailed off. After a few seconds she came back to life. ‘And that’s given me an idea. Give me five minutes, you two.’

  She walked jerkily away across the road and grinned back at me. Lennie watched her go. ‘That is a good idea. And that has reminded me. I used to have a good snout network round here back in the day. I’m going to spark it up again.’

  ‘You had one?’

  ‘Of course. Back in the SO10 and Sweeney days. We had to.’

  I was feeling cheeky but after a day of being battered with regulations I had to ask him. ‘Right. And how does that sit with ACPO CHIS guidelines?’ Lennie just cackled and didn’t say anything. I looked around at the flows and patterns, and thought. Finally Lennie broke the reverie. ‘So does Holly still do gear then?’

  I turned, slightly surprised at the question. I shouldn’t have been, though. I supposed he had to ask. ‘Nah, I used to watch her shoot up in that Afghan prison we were in and I watched her come off it. And she ain’t ever going back to it.’

  Lennie gawped. He regained the power of speech. ‘You two were both in an Afghan prison?’

  ‘Yeah. Long story.’

  ‘How about you, Riz, you got any contacts round here? Jihadis and such?’

  ‘Yeah, quite a few, and I know some of the mosque people. Good point. I’ll put some feelers out.

  ‘Talking about undercurrents: there's other stuff bubbling along round here.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Do you know the history of how East Pakistan became Bangladesh? The war of independence?’

  Lennie shook his head. ‘Can’t say I do?’

  ‘That’s it, right there. It’s been a huge, weeping sore within the Asian community for over thirty years, and it’s actually getting worse.’

  I told him about the messy split from Pakistan; the death squads; the rapes and massacres; and about the Jamaat-e-Islami.

  I told him about the party cadres who’d killed, and killed again, and who, until recently, had practically worn those murders as a badge. Now, the JI was part of a coalition government in Bangladesh, and they were fighting a rearguard action as one by one, their old boys were being hauled into court.

  ‘Young modernisers versus the original Jamiaatis. You won’t have heard about this, but a bunch of the original war of independence leaders are on trial for war crimes in Bangladesh, there's demos and all sorts. It's cropped up here now. Also, and this is where it really gets messy, the East London Mosque is a focal point for Jamaat-e-Islami in the UK. Not to say they run the whole joint, but they have access to offices and placemen there. The IFE is also dominated by JI people.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘You know about Ajit Mitra? The Islamic Forum Europe and the East London Mosque machine were behind the campaign which won Ajit Mitra a job as Mayor of Tower Hamlets. Wheels within wheels.’

  ‘Christ. That's all we need. D'you reckon people are taking sides?’

  ‘I don't doubt it. Most of the Mayor's lot are IFE and Jamiaati cadres. They won't like it.’

  I suddenly went cold. Oh shit. ‘Lennie. Show us the knife wound photographs again. Can you do that?’

  ‘Yeah, I can probably access them via my phone email if you give me a minute… you want that?’

  I nodded. ‘Please.’

  He tapped at his smartphone screen. Presently we were looking at victim one; throat and wrists slashed; victim two; throat and wrists slashed…

  I’d realised what had been nagging at me the entire time since the Home Secretary’s office. I tapped at the photo on his phone screen. ‘This is the attack signature of the Chaatra Shibir.’

  ‘The Cha-what?’

  ‘The Chaatra Shibir, the student wing of the Jamaat-e-Islami. It’s like their ritual.’

  Lennie breathed out slowly. Finally he just said ‘Jesus….’ and looked around. I stared up at the old Victorian brickwork of the buildings that loomed above us. Was that why the Colonel had attached me and BB to the enquiry? Was he destined to be always one thought-process ahead of me? The crafty old bastard...

  Lennie was talking. ‘So here’s me with a gambling addiction, your other half was addicted to heroin... how did it mark you, Riz?’

  ‘Bad dreams, Lennie. Bad dreams.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘You didn’t exactly escape unscathed, Lennie.’

  He nodded sharply. ‘OK. You’re right. I have a gambling habit. A bad, losing one. It started to bite when I was in SO10 undercover as a racing match fixer. I played the part too well. That much is obvious.’

  ‘Matters not. Tell you what – let’s come to an arrangement. For the duration of Op SALEM, me and the other half will try not to shoot anyone, and you stay out of the bookies. Deal?’

  ‘Deal.’

  A commotion started down the lane. I slowly became aware of a cluster of black-clad lads, some bearing placards, milling around a shopfront. Oh no, I thought to myself. We start talking about al-Muhajiroun and they appear, like a hex. They seemed to be protesting about something. I squinted at the placards. Prostitution? Gambling? Immoral earnings? Who knew, I was trying to read the Quranic Arabic in the neon glow.

  Lennie looked inquiringly at me. ‘Islam4UK?’

  ‘Yeah. Or Muslims Against Crusades, al-Muhajiroun, and many more names besides. ‘Horrible little cult, they have the run of the place round here. Intimidation…scaring shopkeepers mostly.’

  ‘How so?’

  As I started to explain there was shouting from down the lane and then a crash of window glass. The black clothing parted like the seas and Bang-Bang walked daintily through and back down the street towards us, grinning. She’d swung one of the lads through the shopfront and his mates were struggling to pull him out over the broken shards. His placard was still speared into the shop, among the window trinkets and Bollywood posters. His friends stood paralysed, incredulous.

  I buried my head in my hands and then breathed out and looked up. Lennie studiously looked away. Bang-Bang walked up, waved her slightly bloody hand in the air and said ‘Patha lagya nah merrrraaaa’, in that lazy, Slowpoke Rodriguez drawl of hers.

  We couldn’t think what to say. She looked back at the stricken mob, and then at us. ‘You know I don’t like that lot, meray shohar.’ She came back to my side and after a while, smiled at Lennie. So, he was forgiven. I ruffled her black hair. She only came to about shoulder-height on me. Lennie nodded at us. ‘I’ll pretend not to have seen what just happened.’ He looked
back. ‘You two make a good couple. You know that?’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘I remember the first time I met you two. That ops room in the barracks, back in October when it was all going to ratshit. You held it together.’

  We both dipped our heads in acknowledgement. I spoke. ‘Cheers Lennie. They were tough times.’ I looked down at Bang-Bang. ‘Anything? From the heroin crew, I mean.’

  She shook her head. ‘Not at the moment. But now they know what to look out for.’ She stood and thought for a moment and then pointed back up the road, past the gaggle of al-Muhajiroun. They’d pulled the victim out of the broken shopfront. He was a white ginger convert and he was absolutely furious. They seemed to be arguing amongst themselves about who was going to do something about this latest insult to their manliness. She spoke. ‘That lot up there, the heroin lot. They always talk too loudly to each other in public. Why is that?’

  Lennie nodded. ‘You’re right, come to think of it. I don't know. Maybe they’re trying to appear normal and overcompensating.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  I looked back up the road. The al-Muj crowd weren’t actually going to do anything, as they knew they’d get shot dead. They were now leaving, with much noise and waving of placards. I turned back. ‘Lennie. Going back to what we talked about earlier. Let me give Anjem a call, rattle his tree.’

  Bang-Bang cast her eyes heavenward. She detested this guy and his followers.

  Anjem Choudary answered within three rings. I got straight in there. ‘Anjem! Riz from KTS. Waddya know?’

  There was a very long pause. Then there was a voice on the other end of the phone.

  ‘Didn’t you use to be Riz Haq?’

  ‘I did, in another life. Now Akhi, what’s going on? We’ve got people dying here, all sorts.’

  Sighing he said, ‘It’s not good. I think it’s a local Bengali thing. Or EDL. Hand on heart I think it’s non-religious. Nothing to do with the followers of the Ahl us-Sunnah wal Jamma’ah.’

  ‘You sure, Anjem? If you find anything good for me I’ll put a good word in and keep Special Branch off your back for a bit, sound good bro?’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll keep an eye out. By the way, did your other half just put one of my lot through a window on Brick Lane? I just got a text.’

  ‘Yes, she did. Sorry about that.’

  ‘Hmmm, alright Mr Sabir-Haq. Please keep her away from my lot.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘I’m not being funny, akhi. You want to know the root cause of all the stuff in the neighbourhood? The murders? My guys have it right. Prostitution, gambling, drinking, immoral earnings.’

  I pondered that for a bit. I tried to think of a witty rejoinder but all I could come up with was ‘Yes mate.’

  ‘I’ll tell you something else, Rizwan. If you’re looking for suspects, maybe you should be looking at the people that own the street you’re on.’

  He hung up. I looked at Lennie and Bang-Bang and we all exchanged shrugs. Slowly, our various networks were being tapped. Informers pressured. But no-one knew a thing.

  Evening fell as we wandered down the lane. We took Lennie to the Cinnamon restaurant, and on the way, we pointed out to him all the offices that mattered and all the real sources of power in the neighbourhood. Travel agencies; the IFE; the MCB; Islam4UK. We talked him through the patronage politics, how the community voted… the mosques, everything. South Asian politics and a patina of Arabist revivalism. By the time we got to the curry house he was more confused than when we’d started.

  The manager hustled us to a good table near the back. I was still trying to explain Deobandism as we took our seats. Lennie interrupted. ‘Holly. What is your take on it all?’

  She puffed her cheeks. ‘Bangla politics, mate.’

  Lennie thought for a while and spoke. ‘It’s the mayor that worries me. Here’s what the people I’ve talked to say about him. He’s too close to Islamic Forum Europe, he’s their placeman.’

  I shook my head. He continued. ‘Independent mayor on a tiny turnout, mobilised by IFE…’

  I shook my head again. He carried on. ‘Total Bengali council cabinet, in a borough where only one third of the voting public is Bengali. Who are mobilised by some strange block voting system. You’ve seen the funding they’re pouring in. It’s all Bengali-Muslim focused. They’re clamping down on strip clubs, the gay clubs are nearly gone –’

  I stopped shaking my head and spoke. ‘Dude. You’re reading it wrong. Yes the IFE is strong round here. Their offices are on the top floor of London Muslim Centre, in fact. And there are policies that are a sop to traditionalists. That’s true. But the real power round here is the money. And the money comes from the people that run what we’re sitting in. The curry kings.’

  And I was off again, explaining the money, and the troika of curry kings who had carved this neighbourhood up. How several families passed the contracts, the block votes, the patronage, down through the generations. Finally I explained the Mela festival and the sheer scale of the building contracts and graft in the area. ‘Think Newcastle in the seventies, Lennie. Think Get Carter.’

  He grinned. Now he had a point of reference. Bang-Bang said ‘See, this is why I don’t do politics and dipstick here does. He goes off on one.’

  I nudged her. ‘Yeah well, trusting your judgement – you think TOWIE is real.’

  Lennie interrupted. ‘Anyway. The day at the office went well. You two seem to be getting on OK with Greg Rich.’

  I nearly coughed beer down the wrong chute. ‘Getting on? Not likely. He hates me, he’s bent –’

  Lennie raised an eyebrow. ‘Bent, you say. Do elaborate.’

  ‘Aw, Lennie, come on mate. Even back when I was a joyrider round here we all knew. He’s in tight with those whiteboy villains from Canning Town.’

  Lennie looked sanguine about it. ‘Alright. Similar to what I heard. Doesn’t bother me ‘cause it doesn’t impinge on the investigation.’

  ‘Now Lennie. Speaking of bent…’

  We both grinned and Lennie shook his head slightly. ‘OK I had that coming. Yes, the gambling problem.’

  ‘The debt problem. How much and who to? Triads?’

  He was quiet for what seemed like minutes. We’d already bailed him out last October, to the tune of sixty thousand pounds owed to the Wrights. I’d taken care of the handovers myself. It had been a nightmare. Finally he spoke.

  ‘Forty large. To the Tamil Tigers.’

  I slapped my hand on the table. ‘Oh for fuck’s sake Lennie. Not the LTTE. Anyone but them.’

  Bang-Bang placed her hand over mine. ‘Babe. Let’s go and sort them now.’

  I shook my head. ‘No, we’ve both had a few. We’ll end up shooting them all, and we don’t need that war. No. Tomorrow afternoon I’ll sign out the cash from the office, and when night falls, you and I will go see them. I’ll speak to the Bandit Queen myself; you can watch the door…’ I pointed at Lennie. ‘And you, DCI George, will be waiting nearby in your car to pick us up.’

  ‘Who’s for another Cobra?’ said Bang-Bang cheerily.

  ‘You know what, I think I will’ said Lennie. Bang-Bang started giggling. ‘LTTE. Oh my days.’ Her shoulders shook and one of her false eyelashes fell into her curry. She started laughing even harder. That got me laughing too. The manager appeared, hovering over her side of the table. ‘I hope you young men are looking after my favourite girl.’

  By now both me and Bang-Bang were in stitches. Lennie looked like he was going to be ill. I looked at the manager. ‘There’s only one cure. Cobras and sambucas all round.’

  The LTTE, The Tamil Tigers, only the most ruthless, vicious ethnic terrorist organisation in Britain. Lennie didn’t half pick ‘em.

  The restaurant drew up its shutters and we all left. We bade our goodbyes to the manager and Lennie, and walked away from Cinnamon, south down the neon blur of Brick Lane. We seemed to be walking in slow curves as Bang-Bang hung on me. ‘Dollll. I’m a little bit pissed. Your manag
er mate and his flaming sambuccas…’

  ‘I know. It can get like that.’

  Bang-Bang tried hailing a cab but the driver took one look at her and drove away. She shouted after the cab. ‘Bastard! Never mind. Hey Rizwan my darling, waddya think of Lennie?’

  ‘He seems switched on. Obviously knows all there is to know about Ripperology and serial murder. Why?’

  ‘No reason. You’re right, he knows the turf. CAAAAB!’

  I held her up. ‘Babe, babe! I’ll get some beers. We’re gonna have an afterparty.’

  A cab stopped. I tapped the door. ‘Wait there, uncle-ji.’

  Bang-Bang smiled at the cabbie. ‘Salaaams bhaisaab! He wants an afterparty. Hoo-ah.’

  17.

  DAY THREE

  I opened my eyes, Bang-Bang was sitting cross-legged next to me, diligently painting her fingernails black. She was concentrating. I could tell from the wonky-eyed focus on the nails and the varnish, and the way her tongue was sticking out. Finally she became aware of my gaze. ‘Morning! I made you a tea, my little drunken one. You were snoring, by the way.’

  I looked about blearily and saw the mug of tea. I looked back at her. ‘I don’t snore.’

  ‘You do, too.’ She went back to painting her nails. There was an ashtray perched on my chest with a lit cigarette in it.

  ‘So? You’ve got a cold nose.’

  She cocked her head and gave me that look.

  I tried to speak coherently. ‘Wossatime? We really tied one on last night.’

  ‘10Am. We did, you’re funny drunk.’

  ‘Says you.’

  ‘Hey Riz babe, look at these. Louboutin nails. Black on top, scarlet underneath. Rawwwrr.’ She showed me her black and red talons.

  ‘Great. I gotta get to work. You?’

  ‘Yep. We serve the Queen and all that.’

  I shook my head, more to clear it than anything else. ‘Are you doing MSSG today?’

  ‘I am, darling, the whole gang is. See you at the office?’

  ‘Yeah. And you can thank the office for your hire car.’

  She took the cigarette out of the ashtray and traipsed to the bathroom, singing ‘When you care enough to send, to send the best…’