The DCI Isaac Cook Thriller Series: Books 4 - 6: Murder (The DCI Isaac Cook Thrillers Series Boxset)

by Phillip Strang

  ‘It is a night for giving praise to Allah. He has guided us on our jihad,’ Durrani agreed. ‘Praise be to Allah.’

  The Dog and Duck in Richmond, an old coaching house, had been built four hundred years previous. Even a King of England, a few centuries earlier, had stopped there as he passed through on his way to one of his hunting lodges. All that remained after Amr Yaseen had achieved martyrdom was the blue metal sign that had been attached to the outside wall by the local heritage society testifying to the illustrious visitor. The bar, full of horseshoes and farming implements, even old newspapers framed and attached to the wall, attracted great numbers of people. That night there had been over one hundred and fifty standing close to the counter, or sitting on a chair if one could be found. There were another four or five tables outside and, even though the night had been cool, they were all occupied. A few stiff drinks and even the most underdressed for the weather felt impervious to the biting wind.

  It was to be another three days before a final tally of fatalities was released to the media. One hundred and sixty-two confirmed dead, no survivors. Even if any had survived the explosion, the second and third floors, along with the roof collapsing, would have completed the task. Amr Yaseen was duly identified and his parents, good if simple people, informed. Their lives destroyed by a son who neither understood the reason for fundamentalism nor the fact that the wanton death of innocent people, Muslim or Christian or Hindu or Jewish, was a sin as put forward by Mohammad in the Koran. Yaseen’s death had neither been honourable nor religious. It was murderous, and his parents were left with a dead son and a community that would treat them as social outcasts.

  The Old Belle in Hampstead and the Ship Inn in Mayfair showed similar devastation. Deaths at the Old Belle were close to two hundred, while at the Ship Inn, a smaller pub, just over ninety. It was confirmed two weeks later, from some blood on the wall, that the final tally at the Ship Inn was ninety-three, including a baby in a cradle, four months old.

  Three more public houses, a total of three hundred and ten died, as well as a horse that was tied up round the back of one of the pubs. It had been the favourite of the publican’s eldest daughter, a comely young woman of nineteen who was sleeping upstairs when the bomb went off. She died as well.

  The situation was repeated at the remaining six public houses making a total of one thousand and fifty-two people, including some refugees from Afghanistan. They had just arrived in the country and were out for an evening stroll when they walked past the front of a pub in Bayswater. They had survived a lifetime of suicide bombings and wanton killings and were marvelling at the safety of England when a bomb from one of their own people that blew them across the road and into the front of an oncoming bus. They were dead before the bus hit them.

  ***

  Seamus Gilligan felt a new man as he walked off the boat and onto Irish soil in Rosslare, County Wexford.

  An Irishman is not an Irishman unless he is on Irish soil, he thought. It’s good to be home. It will get better from here and no more gambling.

  His optimism was to be short-lived. He had phoned his mother, spun a story about taking some extended leave, reevaluating his options and she, the ever-dutiful mother, had believed him. He had not seen that eyes were watching him, in fact too many eyes. Faisal Aslam had his people there, as well as Isaac Cook and Ed Pickles, who had taken a late afternoon flight out of Heathrow They all clearly saw Gilligan as he exited the port area.

  Paddy O’Flynn was an old-style policeman, same as Ed Pickles. A member of Garda, the Irish police force, for thirty plus years and close to retirement, he looked forward to a quieter life. He was even taller than Isaac, with a downbeat sense of humour, a strong Irish accent, and a love of Guinness. He had a full moustache hanging over his upper lip, complemented by a set of shiny white teeth.

  ‘Just got them the other day. They’re false, you wouldn’t know it,’ he proudly declared as he introduced himself.

  ‘Please to meet you, Detective O’Flynn,’ Isaac said.

  ‘Paddy’s the name, policing’s the game. We’re not too formal here.’

  ‘I’m Isaac and Ed, you know.’

  ‘Ed, of course, I could tell you a thing or two about the capers we got up to. The villains we chased, caught a few, but they were real slippery. Same as this guy, I suppose.’

  ‘No, he’s not slippery, but those that are after him are,’ Isaac said.

  ‘You mean those two guys staking him out down to the left of us, about one hundred metres?’ Paddy replied.

  ‘I never saw them,’ Isaac commented.

  ‘You would have if you had spent a few years manning the border with Northern Ireland, watching out for the IRA going in and out.’

  ‘Must have been tough?’ Isaac said.

  ‘It was. About the same as you’ve got it back in England now,’ Paddy said.

  ‘We could do with you over there,’ said Isaac. ‘Interested?’

  ‘Me? Not a chance,’ replied Paddy. ‘I’ve done my spell chasing villains, been shot a few times, lucky to be standing here today. I’m not taking any more risks. I’ll leave it up to you younger men.’ He laughed. ‘Do you want me to grab them in the car?’

  ‘No, we don’t want them to know we’re on to them. Not yet anyway,’ Ed said.

  ‘How about Seamus Gilligan, can we pick him up?’ Paddy asked.

  ‘We certainly want him, but we don’t want the other side to know,’ Isaac said. ‘Can we make him disappear, at least to those following him, and then pick him up later? If they know we’re onto them, their organisation will go further underground. We want the person controlling them. Those in the car are just the rank and file. They’re of little use to us.’

  ‘Disappear?’ said Paddy. ‘I’m sure we can arrange that. We’ll put a tail on those following him, let them move freely for now.’

  ‘That’s exactly what we want. Maybe a car accident and then we can take our Mr Gilligan in for a little chat,’ Isaac said.

  ‘Consider it done,’ Paddy said. ‘Let’s have a drink. It’ll be a few hours before there are any developments, and there’s nothing to do until then.’

  Neither Abbas nor Abu were proficient drivers. Abu had passed his test two weeks earlier, and now he was trying to keep up with a little old lady, Seamus Gilligan’s mother, who drove as if there was no tomorrow.

  ‘Keep up Abu, or we’ll answer to the Master,’ said Abbas.

  ‘I’m trying, but we’re in this clapped-out heap. She’s got a new Ford Focus,’ Abu responded. He had been born in Ireland, spoke with the accent of an Irishman, even when speaking in the tongue of his forefathers.

  He had been disadvantaged by a system that was prejudiced against him and his friends. It was nothing to do with lack of education or poor attendance at school ‒ it was all to do with the Irish hatred of Islam. That’s what their Mullah had told them - it was a common theme in the conversion of the disillusioned, and both he and Abbas believed him implicitly. They had joined the cause with a fervour some months earlier, and this was their first assignment. There had been a training camp in the Middle East where they had received some instructions, mainly in surveillance, very little with weapons, which had been their primary interest.

  ‘We need people who can go undercover, blend in with the infidels. Men with guns, we’ve got plenty.’ Their instructor was a battle-hardened warrior who had been in the front line as the Islamic State had cut a swathe through Iraq and Syria and then Turkey until they were now placed within striking distance of Europe. There were a hundred thousand Western troops on the European side of the Bosporus, but they were only small in number compared to the Islamic State and their three hundred and fifty thousand, and they were toughened in combat and ready to fight.

  Abu failed to see the Toyota Landcruiser that pulled out rapidly from a side road.

  ‘What the hell, stupid woman driver!’ he shouted, but the brakes on his old car barely worked. He hit the rear side of the offending vehicle fair
and square. His vehicle was un-drivable, the Landcruiser barely a scratch.

  ‘I’m so sorry. It was my fault,’ said the attractive, middle-aged mother, who promptly exited the four-wheel drive vehicle. ‘I was late picking my son up from school, you know how it is? I just wasn’t paying attention. Give me your details, my insurance company will pay. It’ll cost you nothing,’ she added nervously, feeling guilty as a result of her bad driving.

  ‘You stupid fucking woman!’ Abu, who had a limited vocabulary, and an ardent disrespect for women, used the only words he could. ‘It’s getting home I want, not standing here by the side of the road arguing with a woman. I’d ban you all from the road if it were up to me.’

  ‘Abu,’ Abbas pulled him to one side, ‘the time is coming. For now, we need to follow the other car.’

  ‘Okay,’ Abu said, looking at the lady, ‘give me your phone number, and I’ll contact you in the next day or so.’ With that, Abu and Abbas walked quickly up the road looking for a car to steal. They had learnt how to do it in training. They would not get far before being pulled over and arrested for driving a stolen car.

  ‘Congratulations, job well done,’ Paddy said on his mobile while downing his third Guinness. Sergeant Penny O’Hearne had accomplished her task.

  ‘We’ve got a few hours. We’ve already got a tail on the mother’s car. She’ll not see it. We’ve got time for another Guinness,’ Paddy said to Isaac and Ed.

  ‘It’s a long way,’ Isaac said, almost pleading to get out of the pub. ‘It must be three hundred kilometres.’

  ‘Closer to four,’ said Paddy. ‘Don’t worry, we’ve got a helicopter. We’re civilised over here, take us a couple of hours and a pick-up five kilometres from the mother’s cottage. It’s all arranged.’

  Khalid and Mustafa were enjoying the delights of Ireland as well, although not from the comfort of a warm bar with a pint of Guinness, but from a hilltop overlooking Gilligan’s destination.

  ‘The fools have been arrested. It’s up to you two,’ Faisal Aslam said on the phone to them.

  ‘What happened?’ Khalid asked.

  ‘They had an accident and then tried to steal a car. That’s the problem, we’re forced to use idiots.’

  ‘We will not fail, Master. What is it you wish us to do?’

  ‘Kill Gilligan and get back here as fast as you can.’

  ‘The mother, what do we do with her?’ Khalid asked. ‘She’ll be close by.’

  ‘I don’t want witnesses. Martyr her to her God if you have no option. Make sure you’re not seen.’

  Khalid and Mustafa were good at concealment, but they weren’t as good as Aileen and Brian O’Garrity, Donegal Garda, constable and senior constable respectively and a married couple when off duty. They were pretending to be a courting couple out on the downs for a pleasant day of walking and kissing and cuddling. The two part-time wrestlers had seen them, discounted them as a couple of promiscuous locals looking for a quiet spot.

  ***

  It was dark by the time the Ford Focus drew into the driveway that led up to the cottage owned by Seamus Gilligan’s mother. Standing alone and partially hidden from the road, it had been easy for Mustafa to slip up close and enter through the unlocked back door after she had let the cat out.

  ‘If I don’t let him out, he’ll only scratch the furniture,’ she said.

  ‘It’s good to see you, Mum,’ Seamus said.

  ‘It’s good to see you, too. I only hope you know what you’re doing.’ His mother, ever concerned, knew of his weaknesses.

  ‘I do. A career change will do me good. You don’t know how hard it is looking after the garbage of society in Belmarsh. They’re really the dregs. Kill their own grandmother for a cigarette, some of them would.’

  ‘Yes,’ his mother said. As with all mothers, especially Irish, she could not resist offering advice, ‘but you had the possibility of promotion. You could have bought a little cottage back here in time. Mind you, this will be yours when I’m gone, which won’t be too long.’

  ‘Don’t talk like that. You know it only upsets me,’ Seamus said.

  ‘Well, if you came here more often, then I wouldn’t need to say it.’

  ‘But I’m here now. Let’s not talk about death and such morbid subjects.’

  ‘What would you like to eat, your favourite?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, a good meat pie would be great. Do you have one made?’ His mother’s meat pies were famous, even won prizes at the local church fete.

  ‘I made one special for you just yesterday.’

  The O’Garritys, newlyweds, only five months, had been distracted for fifteen minutes. A car, a cosy environment and with not much happening, they had turned to some harmless lovemaking. It had been harmless to them, but harmful for Seamus Gilligan and his mother. The amorous couple had failed to see the figure creeping along behind an old fence close to the cottage five minutes earlier.

  ‘Are they still there?’ Aileen asked at the conclusion of their romantic interlude.

  ‘Yes, I can see the occasional lit end of a cigarette. They’re still there,’ Brian replied.

  ‘What about Gilligan and his mother?’ she asked.

  ‘In the front room from what I can see. Just talking and watching television, although it’s hard to see from this distance.’

  The three Guinness drinkers, even Isaac had drunk more than normal, were waiting down the road. It was not five kilometres, more like ten, but it was a still night, and there had been the possibility that a helicopter’s engine may have been heard if they had landed any closer.

  ‘Do we know who they are?’ Isaac asked referring to the Islamic State persons sitting up on the hill overlooking the mother’s farm.

  ‘None at all,’ said Paddy. ‘We can’t go closer. Otherwise, our cover is blown.’ He was sitting close to a fire in the local pub, but no drinks this time. He was on police business and drink and policing didn’t work, not in his books anyway.

  ‘Then how do we get Gilligan?’ Ed asked.

  ‘That’s the question. They can’t stay there forever. We’ll just have to wait them out,’ Paddy said, although the wait was not to be for much longer.

  Mustafa had chosen his moment, and this time, it was not to be a knife. Faisal Aslam had ensured he had a Beretta 92FS pistol with a suppressor mounted on the front. He’d have preferred a knife, but he had to ensure clean, single shots to each of the persons. Slowly, he opened the door to the main room and entered.

  Seamus Gilligan was quickly on his feet.

  ‘What the hell …’ He fell quickly with a bullet to the chest, just low of the heart. Mustafa had failed to compensate for the weight of the suppressor.

  The mother froze in the comfy chair that she always sat in, or at least whenever she could get the cat to move.

  ‘What have you…’ His shot was better this time, a static target and he had made a mental adjustment. Both were on the ground, both were dead, but it had been drummed into him to always finish the job with one bullet firmly in the temple of the head. He remembered his training and executed the final shots.

  ‘My God, there’s been a shooting,’ Aileen screamed. ‘We’ve got to get down there.’

  ‘Remember our instructions, maintain cover at all costs,’ her husband, now Senior Constable Brian O’Garrity, said.

  ‘That doesn’t apply now. We’ve got to see if we can help,’ Constable Aileen O’Garrity replied.

  ‘It still applies. I’ll make a phone call, get some advice.’

  ‘Detective O’Flynn, there’s been a shooting.’ Brian O’Garrity made the difficult phone call to his boss.

  ‘Where are you?’ Paddy O’Flynn asked.

  ‘We’re still undercover. We haven’t moved,’ O’Garrity replied.

  ‘Then don’t move. Just stay where you are, and whatever you do, don’t break cover.’

  ‘The vehicle up from us, it’s on the move. Will you deal with it?’

  ‘We’ll follow it. Once we know it
’s clear you can check out the farmhouse.’

  ‘They may still be alive,’ Constable O’Garrity said to her husband.

  ‘No, they’re dead.’ Paddy O’Flynn had heard her voice over Brian O’Garrity’s phone. ‘As long as your cover is intact, then nothing’s lost.’

  ‘Apart from two lives, that is,’ Brian O’Garrity said, more for the benefit of his wife than for Paddy O’Flynn.

  ‘Sorry to sound callous,’ Paddy said, ‘but we’re playing for big stakes here.’

  ‘Okay, maybe we don’t know the whole story. We’ll not move until you give us the all clear,’ Brian O’Garrity confirmed.

  ‘Fine, now let me get on with following the car.’ Paddy ended the phone conversation and turned to the two detectives from Counter Terrorism Command.

  ‘Isaac, Ed, bad news. It’s fairly certain that Gilligan and his mother are dead.’

  ‘We’ll deal with the how later,’ said Isaac. He saw no reason to conduct an investigation. It had gone wrong, time to move on. ‘We need to follow the car.’

  ‘We’re on to it. They’ll not give us the slip,’ Paddy replied.

  ‘I hope not. One cock-up a night is enough,’ Isaac said. ‘Gilligan may have known something, but now we’ll never know. We need to get back to London. And remember, we need to find out who is in the car, where they headed. Don’t pick them up.’

  ‘Once the assassin’s car is clear, I’ll get you a ride to Belfast. No trouble with flights from there,’ Paddy said.

  Faisal Aslam did not share Isaac Cook’s disappointment. He was elated, and he thanked Khalid and Mustafa profusely.

  ‘Allah be praised. Were you seen?’

  ‘Master, no one saw us. It was most satisfying,’ Mustafa answered.

  ‘Get back here as soon as possible,’ Faisal Aslam said. ‘Our plans are moving forward.’

  Chapter 7

  Frederick Vane and Andrew Martin had seen some benefits as a result of their earlier meeting with Bill Gardner, the Director of the Office of National Statistics. They had been relocated from the glorified broom cupboard and moved to a better office. Equipped with new laptops and as many paper clips as they wanted, it was still missing one vital component, inspiration.