Isaac thought that under the circumstances a lenient charge may give her a reduced sentence, possibly no time in prison, but it would be exceptional. Still, if asked to provide evidence, he knew that he would make a plea for leniency based on the woman’s cooperation, and the desire to save her husband, Ed. There were two facts that did not gel: why would Malcolm Woolston want to kill Ed Barrow and why had he killed Sue Christie?
***
For once Ed Barrow found himself without a job. As the department’s research director, he had been given the sack. It had come quickly after the death of Sue Christie and the arrest of Malcolm Woolston. Barrow could see the hand of influence and power behind the scenes. He knew how it worked, having used it when Malcolm Woolston had refused to reveal the final solution to his research project.
Then it had been easy. Harold Hutton had counselled him on what was required after he had informed him, but who was calling the shots now? Barrow didn’t know, and it concerned him. He had made a few phone calls, received bland responses, or maybe he had called the wrong people.
Barrow was desperate. Without any support mechanism in place, and in a trial, proof that Malcolm Woolston had been tortured, the questions would come back on him, and what did he have? Nothing. No written record, no recorded conversations, and the only persons who could corroborate his story were all dead, killed by Woolston.
Ed Barrow travelled to where his wife was being held. He found her in a conciliatory mood. ‘Malcolm’s going to live,’ she said.
‘That’s not what you intended.’
‘What were you up to? What caused Malcolm to do what he did?’
Both of them realised that whatever happened, their marriage was doomed.
‘The man was idealistic. He brought this on himself.’
‘He always was, you know that. Did you have him tortured?’
‘I knew about it, but it was not my idea. I was placed in a dilemma. One of those decisions in life which cannot be defined by a simple yes or no.’
‘And now I’m in jail, charged with murder.’
‘Life takes unknown directions. It’s not over yet.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The project that Malcolm was working on is still valid.’
‘They’ll make him continue?’
‘He’ll either agree, or they’ll force him.’
‘Can they?’
‘They know his Achilles’ heel.’
‘Sally and me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Would they?’
‘Those bastards will do anything.’
‘Do you know who they are?’
‘I have my suspicions.’
‘Then you’d better contact them.’
‘I have already.’
***
Two men met. Two men who had little in common apart from the fact that both were ex-lovers of Sue Christie. Claude Smythe was British Army, the son of a duke. Ed Barrow was a civil servant, the son of a bus driver and educated at the local grammar school, not at Eton.
‘Barrow, you know what’s needed,’ Smythe said. There was to be no friendly conversation this time. Smythe had the irritating habit of referring to his social inferiors by their surnames.
‘You know what I require?’
‘It’s already been agreed.’
‘In writing? Barrow asked.
‘No one will claim responsibility if this goes wrong.’
Ed Barrow could see that he had to trust the man. He did not like Smythe, despised him in many ways. His father had been working class and a decent, hardworking individual who had never cheated on his taxes, helped the old dears on and off his bus. Smythe, Barrow knew, would help no one.
The conversation had been brief, a handshake on their meeting, another on leaving. Barrow knew that he was placing his trust in a man he did not like, but he had no option.
Two days later, as Malcolm Woolston hobbled down the corridor outside his room at the hospital, an order came through signed by Commissioner Davies for his immediate release. Another two hours and Woolston stood on the street in the company of two men dressed in suits. ‘Ed Barrow?’ he asked.
‘We’re just the delivery men,’ the shorter of the two said.
‘Where are you taking me?’
‘You’ll see.’
A vehicle drew up alongside, its windows tinted. Once inside, and with Woolston pinned between the two men on the back seat, one of them took out a syringe from his pocket and injected him in the neck.
‘How long will he sleep?’ the other one asked.
‘Long enough.’
***
The first Isaac and his team heard of the events at the hospital was a phone call thirty minutes later.
‘They’ve released Woolston,’ Richard Goddard said.
‘Who’s they?’ Isaac asked.
‘Davies received a directive.’
‘And he released the man? He may be the commissioner of the Met but he doesn’t have the authority.’
‘He had no option.’
‘Protecting his job, is that it?’
‘Isaac, you may well be upset, so am I, but we all have someone we report to.’
‘Even Davies?’
‘We’ve been there before. You know how it works.’
‘Security of the state?’
‘They’re the government. We do what we’re told.’
Isaac called in the team to his office. ‘They’ve released Malcolm Woolston.’
‘All charges dropped?’ Isaac asked his DCS on the phone.
‘The charges still apply.’
‘Gwen Barrow?’
‘There’ll be a trial.’
‘A whitewash?’
‘What do you think?’
***
Isaac and Larry left the office soon after their DCS’s phone call. They found Ed Barrow at his house. ‘Were you involved?’ Isaac asked.
Barrow sat calmly on a chair. He fiddled with his smartphone. Isaac wanted to pick it up and to throw it out of the window, as angry as he was.
‘Woolston?’ Barrow said, pretending not to know.
‘Where is he?’
‘I don’t know. He’s gone, that’s all I know.’
‘You’ve sold out.’
‘Sold out to who and what?’
‘Those who wanted him.’
‘It’s not a matter that I can talk about.’
‘Why?’
‘Official Secrets Act. You’ve heard of it.’
‘I’ve heard of it. What did they offer you? A salary increase, a promotion.’
‘I didn’t do it for that.’
‘Then for what?’
‘My family, that’s who.’
‘Your wife is still in jail.’
‘She is safe, as is Sally and her child. That’s what Malcolm wanted all along. I’ve done what he couldn’t.’
Within one week Gwen Barrow was released on bail; six weeks later the charge against her was dropped.
In another country, in a secure establishment, Malcolm Woolston worked at the project he had tried to avoid for so many years. He was aware of the penalty for failure to complete it, the penalty for any attempt on his part to delay it.
‘Malcolm, they’re safe. That’s all that’s important,’ Ed said to him in the small room that constituted Woolston’s living quarters.
Woolston nodded his head weakly, knowing that it had all been in vain. They would have their weapon, and he would never see England or his family again.
The End
Murder Without Reason
ALSO BY PHILLIP STRANG
MURDER WITHOUT REASON
THE HABERMAN VIRUS
MALIKA’S REVENGE
HOSTAGE OF ISLAM
PRELUDE TO WAR
Chapter 1
Isaac Cook was the best policeman that Counter Terrorism Command had secured since its establishment ten years previous. A beat police officer, he had through sheer professionalism and burning the
midnight oil risen through the ranks to Detective Chief Inspector in record time. He was slated to rise to the highest echelons of the London Metropolitan Police, possibly a future commissioner, and the transfer to Counter Terrorism Command seemed opportune to his professional ambitions. He was also black, black as the ace of spades as a result of Jamaican parents, who had come over in the sixties and suffered in the impoverished ghettoes of Notting Hill.
A good education, his parents had worked day and night to pay the fees and, coupled with an academic brilliance, he possessed a determination that could only be described as stellar. Armed with a soft, mellowing English accent with an undertone of Jamaican, he was an impressive individual. Over six feet tall, he could have been a runner, but he chose law and order over sport. It was he who was going to knock on the Wassefs’ front door, and he knew what their reaction was likely to be.
Investigations had revealed no hint of any disturbing behaviour on the part of the father. In fact, he appeared to be more English than the English. They had also picked up the driver of the car that had delivered Duraid Wassef to the shopping centre car park. The car, subsequently fished out of the River Thames close to Woolwich, thirty-five kilometres to the east of Central London.
‘Mr Wassef, my name is Isaac Cook, Detective Chief Inspector Isaac Cook. I’m with the London Metropolitan Police, Counter Terrorism Command.’
‘What can I do for you?’ Farid Wassef said. A law-abiding man, he was unused to the presence of a policeman knocking on his door.
‘It’s about your son, Duraid,’ DCI Cook said.
‘Yes, but he’s not here.’
‘It is not him that we wish to talk to. It is you and your wife. May we come in?’
‘Please do.’ Farid Wassef could only assume there had been an accident involving his son in the car he had given him.
The room was English in taste, with photos of the family arranged on the top of a piano in the corner. Isaac instantly recognised a good-looking youth. It was the face of the heavily mutilated head that had been blown clear of the body when the bomb had exploded. The photo he had in his possession and the photo on the piano showed clear similarities, but he had no intention of showing the most recent photo to the parents, especially the mother.
‘What can I do for you, Detective Chief Inspector?’ Farid Wassef asked.
‘Unfortunately, I must tell you that your son has met with a serious accident.’
‘Is he badly hurt? Where is he? What hospital?’ the distraught father asked.
‘I am afraid that his wounds were fatal.’ Isaac Cook loved the police service apart from one aspect, that of telling parents that their son or daughter had died as a result of a car accident or a drug overdose. This was more difficult. He had to also tell them that their son was responsible for the deaths of over eighty innocent bystanders.
‘No, no! It can’t be true,’ Duraid’s mother screamed.
‘How dare you come into my house and tell us such a lie,’ the father shouted.
‘It is my responsibility to tell you in person. I have chosen your home as it will help to ease the burden of what I must now tell you.’ DCI Isaac Cook needed to broach how their son had come to die.
Constable Alana Lewis, on secondment from the local police station, was skilled in counselling to parents receiving news that their child had perished in an accident, intentionally or otherwise. However, this was proving difficult for her to handle and she had to look after Mrs Wassef. Trained in basic medical skills, she was able to administer a mild sedative, while the family doctor made his way to the house.
‘What kind of an accident? Was it in his car?’ Farid Wassef asked.
‘I must tell you the truth,’ DCI Cook said. ‘I used the word accident in an attempt to calm the situation.’
‘Then you have failed,’ Duraid’s father said. ‘Neither of us is calm. If this is a ruse, a trick, then I will sue the police for all the money it has.’
‘It is not any of those that you mention, although I can understand your anger. It is best if you let me tell you the truth.’
‘Then please hurry or I will have you kicked out of the house by the local police.’ Farid Wassef was close to exploding with anger.
‘I am sorry, but I am the police and, in this matter, I have full jurisdiction. Not even the Commissioner of the London Metropolitan Police could place an order for me to leave. Now, please, I must tell you the truth.’ DCI Cook took control of the situation.
‘Tell me, and be quick.’ Farid Wassef eyes started to well up with tears.
‘You are aware of a bombing in Salisbury today?’
‘Yes, I am, but what has this to do with Duraid?’ his father responded.
‘You are familiar with an individual by the name of Wali, similar age to your son?’
‘Yes, they were going to look at a car for Wali Hasan to buy.’
‘Then it is clear that there is no confusion.’ It was proving difficult even for the DCI to state what the son of Farid Wassef had done.
‘What confusion?’ the father asked.
‘The bombing was the result of a suicide bomb worn by an eighteen-year-old man.’
‘Wali? Did he commit this terrible act?’ Wassef asked.
‘No, I am sorry. It was your son, Duraid.’
‘I cannot believe you. I will not accept this. You are lying.’
At that instance, a scream came from the kitchen where Constable Lewis and Sheila Wassef had been temporarily sitting.
Duraid’s mother rushed in and headed for Isaac Cook. She was ablaze with anger.
‘How dare you come in here and accuse my son of such a thing’ she screamed. ‘He is a good boy, always has been. He’s not interested in such issues. What would he be doing in such a place? You are lying to make us angry. This is discrimination, plain and simple.’ It took all of Constable Lewis’ strength to keep Mrs Wassef from scratching the Detective Chief Inspector’s eyes out.
‘I’ll need to take you both in to protective custody, as well as your other son,’ DCI Cook said calmly.
‘Are we under arrest?’ Farid Wassef asked. A broken man, he had semi-collapsed and was sprawled across the sofa.
‘You are not under arrest, but those who put your son up to this, converted him, are violent men. They may well see you as a loose cannon, and whether you know anything, or have spoken to the police, they will ensure that a loose cannon is silenced.
‘What do I care? What do we care?’ Farid Wassef said, clutching his wife, who sobbed into his shoulder.
‘Your remaining son still has a life. You must live for him. Don’t you understand?’
‘Yes, you are right. He said he was going out to the cinemas with a friend.’
‘He’s safe with us.’
‘But how did you know where he was?’
‘We have had your house under surveillance for the last four hours. I only came in when I was sure of my facts.’
‘You have destroyed us; you know that?’ the father said. The mother was beyond speech, beyond anger, beyond grief as a result of the powerful sedative that the family doctor, recently arrived, had given her.
‘I know, and I feel for you, but I must do my job,’ DCI Cook said. ‘I must prevent any more occurrences.’
‘I suppose you are right. But why us?’ Farid Wassef begrudgingly admitted that Detective Chief Inspector Isaac Cook had acted correctly.
***
‘Praise be to Allah. Duraid Wassef has martyred himself,’ Mullah Hatem, Wassef’s firebrand preacher said on the phone.’
‘It went better than I could have imagined. It is due to Allah’s benevolence that so many infidels were congregated in one place,’ Durrani replied.
‘And to my convert, he played his part to perfection,’ said Mullah Hatem, pleased with himself.
‘Yes, he deserves our praise and all the virgins in paradise that he desires. It is always so much easier when with have an educated disciple willing to commit jihad.’
‘But it is not always easy,’ Mullah Hatem said. ‘The educated want to debate and question. The ignorant are easy – but, as you say, unreliable.’
‘I am sure that Allah, peace be upon him, will grant you the ability to bring more converts, more educated converts.’
‘The police have grabbed Wali Hasan,’ the Mullah said.
‘What does he know?’ Durrani asked.
‘He knows me.’
‘Then you know what needs to be done. Can it be arranged?’
‘If we know where he is, then it will not be difficult. We have people everywhere.’
‘Are you safe?’ Durrani, the bomb maker, asked.
‘Relatively safe,’ Mullah Hatem replied. ‘I am a religious leader, a moderate Muslim, and unless they have solid proof, the police will not act against me.’
‘Then we must remove the accomplice as soon as possible.’
‘The plan the Master talks about, how are you progressing?’ Mullah Hatem asked.
‘I will be ready. How long do we have?’
‘We still have time. The final date has not been set. It rests with the Master. It is he alone who will give the time of deliverance. We still need to get all the people in place.’
‘Yes, I realise,’ Durrani said, ‘but the Master is anxious for a result. It is the supreme blow against this country of infidels, the moment they realise that we are no longer looking for acceptance or equality. It is superiority that we desire, revenge that we seek for the one true religion and the one true God.’
‘Do you have another target ready?’ the Mullah asked.
‘Yes. It is the one that we agreed on. The biggest so far, but for this, I will need eight, maybe ten, volunteers and no doubt several hundred virgins.’
The DCI Isaac Cook Thriller Series: Books 4 - 6: Murder (The DCI Isaac Cook Thrillers Series Boxset) Page 41
