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

by Phillip Strang

  ‘He’ll be okay. Good hospital food instead of the muck he probably gets served down at the prison. As well as a few nurses, a private room with a television. He’ll be chatty enough.’

  ‘And the appendicitis? Will they operate?’ Frederick asked.

  ‘Why? It’s a ruse to get him somewhere so that you two can spend as long as you want to pick his brain. I’m told if you get past the murdering, the drug dealing, the buggering of young boys and the rough language, he’s not a bad person, and reasonably intelligent.’

  ‘That’s all we have to get past? I thought you were about to say he was cruel to animals, something really serious,’ Andrew offered up some humour.

  ‘That’s the way. Keep a sense of humour, and we’ll get there.’ The director exited as quickly as he had entered.

  ***

  HMS Ambush, Astute Class, nuclear powered, was the largest attack submarine the Royal Navy had commissioned. Sub Lieutenant Ray Styles, in time to be one of its finest new officers, Her Majesty’s Naval Base, Clyde, its operational base.

  It had been a plan long in the making, well over a year and well before Durrani, the master bomb maker had arrived in the United Kingdom. His role had been that of a consultant, and distant as he was then as he was now, his inimitable fingerprints would be evident in the result.

  Ray Styles, a fine upstanding man of twenty-four, was a Navy man, as was his father and his father before him. Originally from a comfortable land-holding down in Devon close to the naval base at Devonport, his father had seen it as an ideal location for his wife, Mavis and the children, Ray, the eldest and Monique, the younger by two years. Len Styles was based out of Devonport and, as the Captain on HMS Triumph, Trafalgar-class, another nuclear-powered submarine, a house nearby seemed the place to be, considering his pending retirement at the relatively early age of fifty. There were a few years to go, but with the allowances that a submariner received and a generous pay-off at his decommissioning, he should be able to afford a few horses, some cattle and, that coupled with his wife’s handicraft shop, it would be enough to ensure a good and comfortable life. He was also anxious to engender a love of the sea in his son, Ray.

  Len’s choice of Devonport over the outer suburbs of Manchester, where they had previously lived, had proved to be a good decision. At the age of eighteen, Ray, by then tall for his age, physically fit and possessing more than the one hundred and eighty points of the Universities and Colleges Admissions Service requirements, was provisionally accepted for officer training at the Royal Navy College, Dartmouth. It was still subject to passing an Admiralty Interview Board and some aptitude and physical fitness tests.

  The fitness tests were no problem as weekend hikes and runs up on Dartmoor, an expansive area of moorland, had toughened him up in preparation. The aptitude tests presented no problems, and a family history of service to their country by the Styles family counted for a lot.

  ‘Mr Styles,’ Commodore Simon Clare asked at the Admiralty Interview. ‘What is it that interests you in the Royal Navy?’ Simon Clare was a foreboding man. A veteran of the Falklands war, he had been on the bridge of HMS Broadsword, a Type 22 frigate, when it had been hit by cannon fire.

  ‘Submarines, I’m interested in submarines,’ Ray Styles answered.

  ‘And why’s that?’ the Commodore asked.

  ‘It’s a family tradition, Sir. My father is on the Triumph.’

  It was two weeks later when he received his letter of acceptance. His father was delighted. Dartmouth was only forty kilometres from home.

  ‘You’ll be able to come home at weekends,’ his mother said.

  ‘Yes, Mum, sure. Every weekend, I promise.’ Ray Styles had wild oats to sow and the weekends were for sowing, but his mother was happy when he promised to pay regular visits.

  Chapter 8

  Anne Argento had revelled in the excruciating performance of the Prime Minister in the Houses of Parliament. She could have helped him if she had wanted, but she did not. Give a man enough rope, and he’ll hang himself, she thought. She would even have supplied the rope. Her desire for his job was not the only reason for seeking his demise. She was, for all her faults, a patriotic Englishwoman. She knew that Europe was heading to war. England was under attack from within, and it was apparent that neither the Prime Minister and the majority of the cabinet, nor the political leaders in continental Europe, understood that basic fact. The situation required a leader, and there were none apparent. The responsibility fell to her, and she knew she was ready, even desperate for the task.

  The English history books stated that the last battle fought on British soil was in 1745, the Clifton Moor Skirmish when the British Hanoverian government came up against the Jacobite rebels. She knew they were wrong. The last battle was the last terrorist attack and, up until now, the British were not defending their positions, taking forward the counter attack. In fact, to Anne Argento, they were doing nothing. It was war, and the country needed a wartime leader, and she was that leader. She was a woman of infinite belief in herself.

  ‘He’s got to go.’ Anne Argento was involved in some behind the scenes lobbying.

  ‘I’m not so sure.’ Angie Butler, an up and coming backbencher with political aspirations of high office, was not a supporter of Argento. ‘Too abrasive, too pushy for my liking,’ she would confide to her father, the Honourable Lord Sussex, back home at the ancestral estate.

  Angie Butler was an aristocrat, whereas Anne Argento was a street fighter. Besides, Argento’s parents were not even English and, to Butler, loyalty and breeding were all important, even if she privately admitted that the Prime Minister was out of his depth. She may have seen the need for a change, but Anne Argento was not palatable, and not palatable by a long way.

  ‘We need a strong leader. Someone firm, able to take control of the situation,’ Anne Argento said.

  ‘I still hold that Clifford Bell will rise to the challenge when the time is right.’

  ‘Don’t you think we’ve reached that time?’

  ‘The current discussions with religious leaders, community representatives and the police show that there still remains a possibility of a solution.’

  ‘They’re just for show, and you know it.’

  ‘The Prime Minister is chairing the meetings. He’s acting positively, and until I see that he has failed, then my support stays with him.’

  ‘How many were killed in your electorate the other week?’

  ‘You mean the cinema in Canterbury? Twenty-one,’ Angie Butler replied.

  ‘Was there another one that wasn’t reported?’ Anne Argento was losing patience with the silly, toffee-nosed woman whose support she wanted. Taking a deep breath, she calmed down and spoke in a manner more suitable. ‘My apologies but these deaths upset me greatly.’

  ‘Yes, I understand. They upset me as well.’

  ‘What is the mood of your electorate? Are they happy to wait for the Prime Minister to resolve the situation?’

  ‘They are greatly disturbed.’ Angie Butler had lied, not because she approved of lying, but a visit to her electorate would have resulted in open criticism of her and the Prime Minister, and she had to agree that Anne Argento made sense.

  ‘I compliment you on your loyalty.’ Anne Argento had little time for the woman born with the silver spoon in her mouth. She and her parents had struggled, fought all their lives to better themselves, but unless the situation changed, decisions needed to be made.

  ‘You, as well as others,’ she continued, ‘will need to look at the options, weigh up the solutions being put forward, and evaluate who can solve this problem.’

  ‘I realise you are making sense, but I don’t believe that time is here yet.’

  ‘Remember Churchill was a wartime leader and I contend that we are at war,’ said Anne Argento. ‘He may not have been popular during peace, but in wartime, he was the only possible person. I realise that, to you, I am aggressive, pushy and sometimes damn unpleasant, but whom and what would you ra
ther have in war?’

  ‘If the situation worsens we will talk again,’ Angie Butler conceded.

  ***

  ‘Mr Shafi, we are informed that you may be able to help us with our deliberations,’ Andrew Martin said in the room that Mohammad Sohail Shafi occupied in the hospital. It was as pleasant as his cell at Belmarsh was austere. It was clean, smelt nice, with some flowers in a vase by the window, and a television mounted high on the wall with sixty channels at least. Shafi hadn’t flicked through them all yet.

  ‘Call me Shafi. If you can keep me in here, then you can have as much help as you want. Apart from the bars on the window and the two policemen outside, it’s as good as it gets.’

  ‘The bars and the windows we can’t do anything about. My name’s Frederick Vane.’

  ‘Okay, Frederick. You couldn’t fix me up with a nice woman as well, courtesy of the National Health Service?’

  ‘I think that’s beyond our capabilities,’ said Andrew. ‘My name’s Andrew Martin. I work with Frederick.’

  ‘Good to meet you, Andrew. It’s just that some of the nurses are hot, and I’ve been in the slammer for too long.’

  ‘I thought your preferences lay elsewhere?’ Frederick said.

  ‘You’ve seen my record, right?’ Shafi said.

  ‘Yes, we’re aware of your history,’ Andrew acknowledged.

  ‘It’s not great, I’ll admit, but these lunatics blowing up the country, killing people... I don’t hold with them. You stop them, and I’m with you.’

  ‘That’s good to hear,’ Andrew said.

  ‘Also, for the record, it’s women I like. Prison’s a tough place, but a man has got to survive, do whatever is necessary to stay sane. Place any hot-blooded man in there and in six months he’ll be looking at the little queers with a smile.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right. The ancient Greeks had no issue with homosexuality,’ Frederick said.

  ‘The ancient Greeks? I’ve no idea about that,’ Shafi said. ‘See what you can do about a woman. Maybe the black police inspector can fix it up before I go back inside.’

  ‘We’ll talk to him. He got you here, no doubt procuring a woman wouldn’t present too much of a problem,’ Andrew said.

  ‘Let’s get down to business. What do you want to know?’ Shafi asked.

  ‘We need to understand how they think,’ said Andrew.

  ‘I don’t know them personally. The only one I know is the voice at the end of a phone line, and those in the prison with me.’

  ‘Let’s start with those in the prison. What are they like?’ Frederick asked.

  ‘They’re stupid, mainly. I never received much of an education, but compared to them I’m real smart.

  ‘Why are they stupid?’ asked Frederick. ‘Most of them were born here. Surely they went to school?’

  ‘I used to wag school,’ said Shafi. ‘I couldn’t see much use for it as I was going into business for myself. In Belmarsh, most of them are brain-dead, no street credentials, no savvy. They were mainly told by their mates that school was a drag, and then some religious leader told them that a Western education was worthless. Study the Koran, listen to your Mullah, and leave the rest to Allah.’

  ‘Why did you not go to school?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘At the age of twelve or thirteen, I had a nice little scam selling drugs around the school yard. I was making more than the teachers with all their education.’

  ‘You thought you were smarter?’ Frederick asked.

  ‘I did then, but I’m a bit older now. If I had that school education now, I wouldn’t be in here.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I was stitched up. The trial was a farce. I didn’t kill the gypsy. It was an accident; I’d swear on that.’

  ‘That’s what we heard, but you have a history of violence,’ Frederick said.

  ‘Sure, out on the street hustling, selling drugs. It’s violent out there. You’ve got to defend yourself, be willing to inflict pain if necessary.’

  ‘It sounds as if it was a tough life,’ Andrew said.

  ‘Tough, but if I finally get out of prison, I’m going straight. Well, not totally straight – used cars, fix them up. That’s what the gypsy was going to do. He wasn’t a bad guy, although I didn’t like him much. He was just trying to make his way in the world.’

  ‘A few dodgy log books, winding the kilometres back?’ Andrew asked. ‘Running the rusty underneath of the car over an oily puddle after you’ve done a quick weld?’

  ‘That’s minor,’ said Shafi. ‘Everyone does it and, apart from a few upset customers, it should bring in enough money, and the police won’t bother me much.’

  ‘Let’s talk about those in prison. What sort of crimes have they been involved in?’ Frederick asked.

  ‘You mean the terrorists?’

  ‘Yes, the terrorists.’

  ‘Maybe I should give you some examples,’ Shafi said.

  ‘However, you want to do it is fine with us.’

  ‘There’s one guy, we call him Soapy for obvious reasons.’

  ‘He spends a lot of time in the showers?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘Yes, that’s it, likes to be clean,’ Shafi smiled.

  ‘What’s he in for?’ Frederick asked.

  ‘He was planning to be a suicide bomber, a shopping mall in Scotland somewhere.’

  ‘Did he lose his nerve?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘I doubt it. He’s dedicated to the cause, probably looked in the wrong pocket for the switch.’

  ‘Whatever the reason, it didn’t go off?’ Andrew said.

  ‘No, but he’s keen to try again.’

  ‘This…’ Andrew asked.

  ‘His name’s Altaf.’ Shafi thought it best to use Soapy’s correct name.

  ‘This Altaf is convinced that blowing himself up and others will enhance the cause?’ Frederick asked.

  ‘He believes what he’s been told, too thick to think for himself. He’s got nothing here in this life and no possibilities. Too thick even to get a job sweeping the floor and then he blames the infidels. Anyway, he’s focusing on the seventy-two virgins, as long as they’re all male.’

  ‘Are they all as stupid in Belmarsh?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘No, we’ve got one guy, university educated. We call him the Prof. Speaks with a nice accent, very polite and he keeps himself occupied by writing letters for everyone.’

  ‘I thought letters were restricted?’ Frederick said.

  ‘The official letters are always checked, but most letters go in and out through the smuggling route.’

  ‘Who runs that?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘I do and some of the screws, the prison officers.’

  ‘Those looking after you are on the take as well?’

  ‘How do you think I spent so many years standing on a corner selling drugs? Cost me plenty paying off the corrupt cops.’

  ‘The Prof, what about him? What’s his history?’ Frederick asked.

  ‘He was running a website, espousing death to the infidel, a paradise for those who commit jihad. They gave him ten years in Belmarsh for inciting violence, for openly supporting terrorism.’

  ‘It sounds severe,’ Andrew said.

  ‘It’s the Counter Terrorism Act,’ said Shafi. ‘Ask Cook and Pickles, they’ll know all about it. They act as if they can do what they like.’

  ‘They got you out of prison and into here. You’re not complaining, are you?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘Me, I’m not complaining. If their Counter Terrorism Act can get me here, it can also get me out of prison permanent.’

  ‘Maybe even fix you up with a woman before you go back in?’ Frederick said.

  ‘If they can do that, then we’ll know that their power is infinite. A root courtesy of the British tax paying public, that’d be something.’

  ‘The Prof,’ Andrew asked. ‘Is he a committed fundamentalist?’

  ‘Probably,’ said Shafi. ‘I’d say he knows more than he lets on. It’s the intelligen
t ones you’ve got to watch. Stupid, they can only blow themselves up, shoot a gun. Intelligent, they can manipulate, organise, and convince others to kill.’

  ‘But why would a university-educated man, born in this country – I’m assuming he was born in this country…?’ Andrew failed to complete the sentence.

  ‘He was born not more than thirty minutes from this hospital. He’s as English as you two, speaks in the same posh manner. He’d be the person to talk to, only he won’t talk. He must be close to whoever’s organising the bombs. He may even know who’s at the end of my phone.’

  ‘Can you try and pump him for information?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘It’s more than my life’s worth. If he suspects me for an instant, I’ll be dead.’

  ‘It’s important,’ Andrew affirmed.

  ‘Tell you what I’ll do. You tell the big black policeman, two women before I enter the gates of Belmarsh, and I’ll try. No guarantees, though. My life is more precious than your need to know.’

  ‘We’ll ensure the women if you agree to try,’ Andrew said. ‘The country is doomed if we don’t come up with something.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Shafi said, ‘but the politicians, the do-gooders don’t. The Islamic State don’t care whether they succeed tomorrow or the day after or ten, twenty years in the future.’

  ‘We invited them to this country. Is it our fault?’ Frederick asked.

  ‘You know damn well it is,’ said Shafi angrily. ‘You bring them here, give them a broom and a mop, tell them to clean up after their previous colonial masters and then stick them in a council house on a draughty and depressing plot of land out in the sticks somewhere and ask them to be thankful. They came here for a better life, not to be servants and lackeys.’

  ‘The government was generous in bringing them here from the wars in their countries,’ Andrew said.

  ‘And then, with a clear conscious, they’re dumped to fend for themselves. ‘The ghettoes are the problem. I know it’s not totally the fault of this country. It’s also the prejudices and traditions of their homelands that they brought with them, but the situation’s been handled badly here.’