by Bo Brennan
Cara. The bitch got back in contact with Gray the same day the hit and run was all over the news. India’s body went rigid. Her teeth ground in her jaw and her fists clenched, pulverising the polystyrene in her hand.
Firman cast his eyes down to where the coffee dripping through her fingers soaked the footwell mat. “He’s at yours, isn’t he?”
India gnawed at the inside of her cheek and stared across the water to the slow-moving police lines searching for the missing part that would send her brother down for life.
“You’ve got one chance to convince me he didn’t do it, India. One chance,” Firman said, holding a finger in front of her face. “Or I’ll have to take him in, you as well if you try to stop me.”
“Nisha Fisher,” India murmured, placing the remnants of her cup on his dashboard. “She was with me, Gray, and Colt at the time of death.”
Firman frowned. “Nisha? What the hell was she doing there?”
“The girl’s been hiding out with Gray at my place. Nisha’s arranging a place of safety for her through the Forced Marriage Unit.”
Firman took a deep breath and slowly released it. “Forced marriage. Why the hell didn’t you come to me with this?”
India sighed. “I couldn’t, she’s terrified. Scarface and his crew track these women through a network that even extends to the police.”
Firman set his jaw and glared at her. “What, and you think this network includes me, do you?”
“No, of course not.” India dragged a hand down her face and tutted when she smeared coffee across her cheek. “I just figured the less you knew, the better. Other than knock some sense into Paul Smith, she hasn’t done anything wrong. You couldn’t tell Dick Henderson what you didn’t know, and the only person from the Home Office who can deal with this, is dealing with this. That’s Nisha Fisher.”
“You think Doug Henderson is part of this network?”
India shrugged. “I don’t know. But I know Priti Patel doesn’t need witness protection, she’s fleeing a forced marriage, guv.”
“Presumably Priti Patel is Shayla Begum’s real name?” he snapped, and India nodded. “Anything else I don’t know?”
“Her dismembered sister was called Shareen. Originally they’re from London.” India shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “I don’t know what she witnessed to need NCA protection, but the priest Dick Henderson shot dead did.”
“Headbourne Worthy. I worked that out myself,” Firman said. “Henderson has taken up residence at your desk. He’s controlling the release of information surrounding the priest, the Central Bank robbery, and the fire at Cantilever Court. It’s the National Front rally in Winchester this weekend. Apparently, the Home Office don’t want to stoke racial tensions.”
“I bet they don’t,” India grumbled.
“On the surface it’s sound,” Firman said. “But scratch and sniff and it’s rotten underneath. What’s the end game?”
India looked at him blankly.
Firman leaned towards her in his seat. “What does Dick . . .” he started, and grimaced when India’s lips quirked. “What do Henderson and his Home Office buddies gain from making Gray look like the bad guy?”
India stared at the crumpled polystyrene cup as she mulled over the crucial question. A reason to shoot him dead in broad daylight, like the priest. “They get Priti Patel. Alone.” Like now. “Guv, I’ve gotta go,” she said, reaching for the door handle.
Firman grabbed her arm. “When’s the girl leaving?”
“Now, if I’ve got anything to do with it.” Her eyes flashed to his hand, he didn’t flinch. India drew a steadying breath. “Monday. Nisha will personally collect her on Monday morning, if she agrees.”
“Make sure she does,” he said softly. “And then bring Gray in. If you don’t, I can’t protect either of you this time, kid.”
New Scotland Yard, London
Colt stepped from his car to a welcoming committee of sharp suits with wired ears and blank expressions. He knew none of them, but he knew who’d sent them. The shine of their shoes and the slick of their hair gave them away. Two of them wore identical boots to Doug Henderson, Colt had a bloody good idea why.
When one of them held open the back door of a sleek black Jag, Colt dutifully climbed in without question. It would’ve been fruitless. The Home Secretary liked her men spick, span, and above all, silent.
The drive to Marsham Street was tense. The brisk two-minute walk, a cramped ten-minute car journey through congested city streets. They travelled in convoy. Vehicles filled with suits, ahead and behind, signified someone expected trouble. Colt got the feeling that trouble was him.
Whatever this was, it was for public consumption.
Shying away from shady back doors, the convoy pulled up alongside the bomb barriers protecting the Home Office from vehicular attack. Two heavily armed officers stood stoically guarding the entrance, as nearby gaggles of well-behaved protestors poured scorn on every political policy from race relations to refugees.
“Nice touch,” he said, as they all stepped out.
The peculiarly modern building’s coloured glass canopy cast the historic city street below, and its disgruntled citizens, in vibrant happy hues. At a cost of over three-hundred million, this particular jewel in the British government’s crown was funded by the French. Colt looked to the red, white, and blue Union Flag flying proud above the site’s three interlinked buildings – designated Seacole, Peel, and Fry – and imagined those pioneering namesakes turning in their graves.
Four of the suits escorted him inside, the tight squeeze in the elevator such an intimate affair they were practically engaged by the time they stepped out.
There was no need to knock. As soon as the gang arrived at her closed door they were commanded to ‘enter’. Colt wondered how many concealed cameras tracked them along the high-powered corridor.
The Home Secretary sat behind her vast desk with a face that could curdle shaving cream. “Leave us,” she said, and the mute men immediately did.
Colt spread his hands. “How do you want me, ma’am, sitting, standing, jumping through hoops?”
“Naked,” she said, without a hint of humour.
Renowned for asking the ridiculous, this was a new one, even for Colt. “You haven’t offered me a drink yet,” he said.
Her face didn’t crack. “Do I need to call my men back in?”
“I wouldn’t advise it. If you want me naked, an explanation will get you a lot further than those goons will.”
She steepled her fingers, tongue playing over her teeth as she silently scrutinised him. “You were at a lap dancing club last night.”
“Yes, I was. You must look different with your clothes on, Home Secretary, because I certainly don’t remember seeing you there.”
Tight lipped, she opened the file on her desk. “Remember seeing him?” she asked, handing him a mugshot.
Colt stared at the face he’d seen far too many times recently. “Maybe,” he said.
“I think you can do better than ‘maybe’.” One click of a button and the giant wall screen beside her showed crystal clear security footage of the evening’s Wildcatz brawl. Colt, Gray, Scarface – all perfectly rendered and readily identifiable.
Usually, a minor indiscretion at a club got his arse hauled into Commander Hussein’s office, not bagged and tagged by the Security Service and delivered to the Home Secretary. “Who is he?” he said.
“Ahmed Singh.”
“For a moment there, I thought you were going to say ‘Amjit Singh’. Now that would be a coincidence, wouldn’t it?”
“No, it wouldn’t.”
Colt inclined his head. “Is he –”
“Yes, he is. Youngest brother.”
Colt guessed that was Commander Hussein’s community relations at the mosque well and truly down the pan. “Bit embarrassing for the imam,” he said. “The Muslim Council of Britain must be made up their head honcho’s little brother is in the skin trade.”
&
nbsp; “Not any more he’s not. Last night he was beaten to death with a knuckleduster and dumped in the sea at Gunwharf Quays.” Colt’s jaw tightened as his hands slid into empty pockets. Where the fuck was it? “Now, a good policeman like you wouldn’t own a knuckleduster – so that just leaves your friend, Grayson Davies. Would he?”
Colt laughed nervously. “I doubt it. For a living, the man saves cats from trees and old ladies from burning buildings.”
“Or not, as the case may be.” The well-informed Home Secretary raised her brows and inclined her head, and Colt knew he’d been personally fingered for it. “You see my problem, Detective Chief Inspector? Your clothes, please.”
Colt threw his jacket over the chair, his waistcoat and tie swiftly followed. “Feels like you should be humming a tune,” he said, unbuttoning. Her eyes narrowed as he discarded his shirt and dropped his trousers. “I got nothing to hide, ma’am. You want me to lose the shorts as well?”
“I want you to lose the locker room humour,” she said, eyeballing him.
“You see me laughing?”
“I don’t want to see you at all. Turn around.”
Colt did as instructed and heard her gasp as she left her seat. He hoped she wasn’t planning on dropping his shorts for him. “You happy now?” he said, staring at the wall as her eyes bored into his back.
“Happier than you it would seem. These scratches and bite marks are days old. It appears India Kane is a much wilder card than first thought.”
“What’s this got to do with India?” Colt tugged up his trousers and turned on her. “You had her suspended?”
“There’s more at stake here than your libido, Detective Chief Inspector,” she snapped. “There are five-year-old girls in Portsmouth aspiring to be jihadi brides when they grow up.”
“There are five-year-old girls in London being raped right now, so why don’t you tell me why you’ve dragged me away from my job and kicked India out of hers.”
The Home Secretary stood glaring at him, dark eyes no deeper than a parched puddle and murkier than mud. “You don’t work for me.”
“And you wonder why,” Colt said, snatching up his shirt. “Are we done here?”
“No. I’ll tell you when we’re done! Sit down.” She drew a deep breath and returned to her desk. “India Kane marched into the middle of an undercover operation. Her removal from duty was a matter of national security. So imagine my surprise when you, who usually display considerably more finesse, turned up last night and derailed it completely.”
Colt fastened his waistcoat and took a seat. “Wildcatz must be selling more than sex if you’re sniffing about.”
“It’s what they’re funding that’s more concerning.”
Colt waited and waited, and eventually spread his hands. “Want to fill me in?”
“Some time ago we identified Portsmouth as a second-tier area for Islamic extremism. The small city has a large number of young men fleeing to fight for ISIS in Syria.”
Colt grimaced. As far as cities went, the south coast naval resort wasn’t that bad. “Portsmouth might be small in area, Home Secretary, but it’s the most densely populated city outside of London. What sort of numbers are you talking about?”
“Let’s just call it disproportionate, Chief Inspector,” she said, as flimsy on facts as ever. “And before you ask – no, the city’s star and crescent crest is not a factor. Neither is their mosque.”
Colt wasn’t going to ask, but suitably chastised he leaned back in his chair, all ears.
“We immediately implemented our ‘Prevent’ strategy and sent counter-terrorism officers into the city’s schools to deliver anti-extremism classes to those at risk of radicalisation.” The kids must’ve loved that, Colt thought. Being singled out to your peers as a potential terrorist was a sure-fire way to guarantee a shitty, and isolated, school life. And probably turn you to terrorism. “It stemmed the flow,” she said. “But without finding the funders we couldn’t plug the dam.”
“You found them at Wildcatz,” Colt said.
She gave a curt nod. “The club is the hub of their operation. Until recently they kept it relatively clean, solely for laundering cash from their criminal activities across the UK. And those activities are many – drugs, arms, prostitution, you name it.”
Colt frowned. “What changed?”
The Home Secretary cleared her throat. “We did. The government implemented reforms to assist big business during the financial downturn. Sadly, some of those reforms were exploited by a small criminal element.”
“Such as?”
“Such as the social welfare and benefits reform. Those listed as ‘unemployed’ were expected to work for their handouts, unfortunately some of them already were – on a cash-in-hand basis.” She gave him a tight little smile. “You can imagine what happens when those with such low scruples are given temporary positions in financial institutions.”
“Melody Fletcher.” Colt could barely suppress his grin. “India was right. The lap dancer did turn over the Central Bank.”
“Along with many, many others up and down the country.”
“And this dead bloke, Ahmed Singh,” Colt said, gesturing to Scarface’s image still staring out at him from her screen. “He one of yours or one of theirs?”
The Home Secretary glared at him. “Theirs.”
“So why’s one of theirs sending me Shareen Patel’s body parts, ma’am?”
Her tense was almost imperceptible. To the untrained eye, the Home Secretary hadn’t moved a muscle. But to Colt she’d showed her hand. Shareen Patel was not a name she’d expected nor wanted to hear. “She gave us their entire operation. Your on-street grooming gang was a very lucrative limb. Not exactly seventy-two virgins in paradise, but those girls provided a nice little taster for would-be jihadists before packing them onto a plane to die. You cut off that limb. They returned the favour.”
Colt had plenty more questions, but the Home Secretary stood up. “Now we’re done,” she said. “Go home.”
As he rose, Colt glanced at his watch. The woman had swallowed his entire morning. It wasn’t a complete waste; he’d intended to scrape intel on Wildcatz. “Nice idea, but I’ve got work to do.” And more importantly a knuckleduster to find.
“Yes you do, Chief Inspector. You have an unruly lover to tame. Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. ‘Go home’ wasn’t a request, it was an order. While my men and I spend the rest of the weekend mopping up her mess, I suggest you take India Kane in hand, before I have to.”
Chapter 66
Park Gate, Hampshire
Gray snatched the shotgun from Priti’s hands. “What the hell are you doing? You don’t even know how to use this thing.”
“I do. Your sister taught me last night. She really doesn’t like being spied on.” Priti gestured to the window. “She’s back, and she looks agitated.”
Gray peered across the chasm to see India pacing Colt’s front room. She suddenly stopped and stared back at him, and for the first time in his life he saw that she was afraid. “Something’s happened,” he murmured, his gaze shifting to the track. “Colt’s back too.”
Priti pressed against his side to see. “Is he alone?”
“Yep,” Gray said, watching him run up the houseboat steps and disappear inside. “No unexpected visitors or ambush planned today.”
“The weekend is ours. Nisha Fisher gave us her word.”
Gray frowned down at her. “You believed her?”
Priti nodded. “Yes. I liked her too. She understands.”
Gray’s heart squeezed. It was more than skin colour that separated them. Nisha Fisher had tried explaining to him why Priti’s family would never stop hunting her, and Gray didn’t understand, but the part he couldn’t understand was how Priti would never stop loving her family. If she took Nisha’s deal, all ties to this life would be severed. He would never see Priti again. She would never be Priti again. “Sounds like you’ve made a decision,” he said.
India wa
s wired. Colt felt her fear as soon as he walked through the door. “Pulled you too, huh?”
“Oh God, Colt,” she gasped. “They’re trying to stitch Gray up for murder.”
“No, they’re not. They’re trying to keep our noses out of their business,” he said, wrapping his arms around her. Her heart was beating so fast she was breathless. Colt guided her into a seat at the breakfast bar. “Calm down. You’re no good like this. I need you to think straight.”
“Firman said –”
He held her at arm’s length. “They’ve fed Firman a line. I’ve been with the Home Secretary all morning. She knows Gray didn’t do it.”
“But Malik’s dead.”
Colt reached behind her and plucked Scarface’s picture from the pile of paperwork. “He is dead, but his name’s not Malik. It’s Ahmed Singh. His brother, Amjit, is the imam at the mosque my grooming gang attend.”
India frowned. “Where Doug shot the priest?”
“One and the same.”
“That clown’s sitting at my desk, controlling the circus,” she grumbled.
“That’s because you made the jugglers drop their balls, babe. The ringmaster reckons you waded into the middle of a major undercover operation. Turns out my on-street grooming gang was the small fry. . . these bad boys are funding terrorism.”
“The organised criminal elements uncovered in the Becky Adams murder case?”
“Becky wasn’t mentioned, but it’s possible. My case came from hers.”
“What’s it got to do with the Patel sisters?”
“According to the Home Secretary, Shareen Patel’s that rare brown canary – she flipped their entire operation.”
India’s eyes widened. “That would get her on their kill list and into SOCA protection,” she said. “But you don’t sound convinced.”
“She’s a politician. When her lips are moving, she’s lying.”
