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

by Phillip Strang

  ‘Is there anything else you need from us?’ Commander Goddard asked.

  ‘Yes, I need something to give to Parliament,’ said the PM. ‘I’m flying blind here, and the information I’m receiving from those who should know is limited at most.’

  ‘There’s not a lot we can give you,’ said Commander Goddard. ‘Nobody knows where they’ll strike next. The best prevention is vigilance.’

  ‘We can’t protect every shopping centre, office block, cinema, public house, let alone all the government buildings,’ the Prime Minister said.

  ‘We have to continue with our work,’ Commander Goddard said.

  Ten minutes the two representatives of Counter Terrorism Command left by the front door of Number 10.

  ‘So, what did you think?’ Richard Goddard asked of his star employee as their vehicle drove out into Whitehall.

  ‘He’s stuffed. He’s got nothing to tell Parliament or the people of this country,’ Isaac replied.

  ‘That’s what I thought. It’s not his fault, but he’s going to be looking for another job soon.’

  ‘It’s his fault and that of his predecessors. They should have acted sooner. The writing’s been on the wall for years, and they’ve just pussy-footed around.’

  ‘You’re probably right. At least you’ve got a photo for the mantelpiece.’

  ‘The parents are going to love that. They came here penniless, worked day and night to give me an education, and now there’s a photo of their son with the Prime Minister.’

  ‘You mean the soon to be ex-Prime Minister,’ Commander Goddard said.

  ‘I’ll just have to come back and get another one.’

  ‘You fix this up, and they’ll be one of you with the Queen.’

  ‘That’ll put a nice balance on the mantelpiece,’ Detective Chief Inspector Isaac Cook said. ‘Queen at one end, Prime Minister at the other.’

  ***

  Shafi’s time at the hospital came to a conclusion, and he was back inside Belmarsh. Not for long, he thought.

  'How’s the scar?’ Yasser Lahham asked the first time he saw him in the prison courtyard.

  ‘It’s fine,’ Shafi replied, ‘not causing me too much trouble.’

  ‘Let me see,’ the Prof asked innocently.

  ‘If you want to, although it's no big deal.’

  ‘Soapy’s safe for a week or so,’ the Prof said.

  ‘He’s got no worries from me. I’ll be sore for a few weeks,’ Shafi said with a smirk. He was not going to tell the Prof that his two frequent visitors had come good on their promise. It was Isaac Cook who had arranged for the two nurses to attend to Shafi late one night in the hospital, only they weren’t registered for changing a bandage or emptying a bedpan.

  Delia, the name she used, was from somewhere in former Yugoslavia. Mercy was black, beautiful, and Jamaican. Both were young and willing and pleasant. It was three hours later when they left Shafi’s room, bow-legged and aching. A man after two years in a prison was not a person who would be satisfied with a quick blowjob and a leg-over. He wanted his money’s worth – or, to be correct, his government’s money’s worth. Isaac had no idea how he was going to claim it on expenses.

  ‘I’ve got some letters for smuggling out,’ the Prof said. ‘Are you able to arrange?’

  ‘Yes, fine,’ said Shafi. ‘I need to make some money now I’m back in this dump.’

  ‘You look remarkably cheerful for a man who’s just had an operation.’ The Prof was very inquisitive, but Isaac had told Shafi to be careful of anyone asking too many questions as they may be a stooge for the Islamic State.

  ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’ Shafi replied. ‘I had a clean room, a television with no off button and all channels available. And then there was the food, three solid meals a day and no restrictions on the helpings. They can take my appendix out anytime they like.’

  ‘You’ve only got one.’

  ‘I know, just talking.’

  ‘I’ll give you the letters later. I’ll make sure to let Soapy know you won’t need him – at least for now,’ the Prof joked.

  ‘You do that.’ Shafi smiled.

  In the confines of his cell, Yasser Lahham made a phone call. ‘He’s been operated on. I’ve seen the scar.’

  ‘Then all is well,’ the Master said. ‘I’ll send you some updates for the website tonight. Can you manage to make the adjustments?’

  ‘Yes, with the iPad that you supplied. I’ll send you a file, encrypted as we agreed.’

  ‘I am pleased to hear. Soon Allah’s wishes will be realised.’

  ‘Then I am a contented person,’ the Prof said.

  ‘Contented, in there?’

  ‘When we succeed, I will be free.’

  ‘You are right. It will not be too long now.’

  ‘Master, I can wait.’

  Soapy was not disappointed that Shafi would not be coming to see him for a week or two. There were plenty of other customers. He was gay and not overly proud of the fact outside, but in Belmarsh, it was a virtue. No one mistreated him, and he was kept supplied with cigarettes and drugs as he required. A heroin addiction was almost impossible to satisfy when he had to turn a dozen tricks a day, but in the prison it was easy. One or two men a night and he was in a drugged-filled haze for the next twenty-four hours.

  ‘Prof, this website,’ Shafi casually asked the next day as they sat in the grassless courtyard that the prison officers claimed was a recreation area, ‘was it difficult to set up?’

  ‘Building a website is not difficult, building a good one is. Why do you want to know?’

  ‘They’ve got a course on computers in the prison library. Preparing us for our day of freedom, they say. I thought I might give it a go.’

  ‘They’re kidding. When are any of us going to get out of here?’ The Prof concealed the fact that his release was imminent.

  ‘I’ve got thirteen, maybe less for good behaviour,’ Shafi said.

  ‘Do you think they’ll honour what the judge said?’ The Prof attempted to throw doubt on Shafi’s belief of an early release. Shafi, however, had a reason to be optimistic, especially if DCI Cook came through as promised.

  ‘I hope so. I don’t want to die in here.’

  ‘Take the training if you want to, but if you’ve not worked with computers, you’ll find it almost impossible.’

  ‘I’ll give it a go. At least it’ll fill in a couple of hours.’ Shafi paused for a moment. ‘Did you ever meet anyone?’ He realised asking too many direct questions was dangerous.

  ‘What do you mean?’ the Prof asked, concerned at Shafi’s continuing questions.

  ‘Those who wanted you to set up the website.’

  ‘Maybe I did it for my own benefit? Help our people.’

  ‘Maybe you did, but you had a good life, plenty of money.’

  ‘How did you know that?’ the Prof asked.

  ‘You told me.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. And no, I never met anyone.’

  ‘No one? It must be hard to do if you don’t meet the customer,’ Shafi continued carefully.

  ‘I met one person, but I never knew his name.’

  ‘I talk to someone. Do some smuggling for them,’ Shafi said.

  ‘But you’re not a member of the Islamic State. Not even a believer.’

  ‘True, I’m a villain, plain and simple. I’m not proud of the fact, but there it is.’

  ‘It was you with the kid in the detention cell?’ said the Prof.

  ‘I can’t answer that.’

  ‘No, I suppose you can’t. Tell me the truth in confidence and I’ll tell you what I know,’ the Prof said.

  ‘Okay, I’ll tell you,’ said Shafi. ‘I’ll trust you to tell me your secret afterwards.’

  ‘That’s a deal.’

  ‘I received a phone call. There would be some money for my mother if I helped out.’

  ‘And you helped out?’

  ‘That I did.’

  ‘I know who I met,’ the Prof said
.

  ‘Did he tell you his name?’ Shafi asked.

  ‘No, he was only the Master to me.’

  ‘So how did you find out?’

  ‘It was easy.’ The Prof appreciated spending a few minutes in idle conversation. ‘I’m good with computers, the Internet. I traced his car’s registration, followed through to the local area where it was registered, made a few enquiries and found out his home address.’

  ‘Who was he?’ Shafi asked.

  ‘I’ll not tell you that. It’s more than my life’s worth.’

  ‘I’ve told you my secret,’ Shafi said.

  ‘Not totally. You only said you helped out. That’s hardly a confession.’

  ‘You owe me a name, you know that,’ Shafi continued probing.

  ‘You know I don’t. Besides, if I tell you I could be in serious trouble,’ the Prof said.

  ‘I won’t say anything.’

  ‘What if your mysterious voice is the same as mine? What do you think would happen if the Master is threatened?’ the Prof said.

  ‘Judging by the nasties we have in here, we’d both be dead,’ Shafi replied.

  ‘That’s why I’m saying no more.’ The Prof walked away, no longer willing to engage in idle conversation. Or was it? he thought.

  Chapter 10

  The young woman nearly died when the pontoon at the local marina in Dartmouth was rendered unstable by the wash of a speedboat travelling too fast. If it hadn’t been for the handsome man in a smart uniform, she would have gone under for a third time after the rocking of the pontoon caused her to fall into the water.

  Ray Styles had seduced a fair number of the lovely ladies in the area during his time at the Royal Navy College. None had prepared him for the beautiful, dark-eyed, lightly tanned twenty-two-year-old that he had dived in for.

  ‘I feel such a fool,’ she said.

  ‘It’s an accident, don’t worry about it,’ he said. ‘Let’s get you out of those wet clothes and warmed up.’

  ‘My name’s Sara.’

  ‘I’m Ray.’

  ‘I don’t have anything else to wear.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ve got some spare kit in the back of the car. I was just heading off for one of my fortnightly visits to see my dear old mum.’

  ‘Don’t let me stop you. I’m sure I can find someone else to help.’

  ‘I wouldn’t hear of it. If I tell her I’ve met a pretty girl, she’ll be delighted. She’s always telling me to stop messing around and find a decent girl and settle down. Maybe you’re the girl.’

  ‘Maybe I am.’ She giggled, despite the first throws of hyperthermia.

  Ten minutes later she had changed out of her wet clothes in the back of his car. Even he had to admit that a pair of overalls and a white, woollen jumper with a pair of heavy boots, the laces undone was not the most becoming sight. Although, he still had to admit she still looked beautiful.

  ‘You look great,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t and you know it. You’re just being kind. I was a fool to fall in, and now I look a fool.’

  ‘We need to get your clothes washed and pressed. Do you have any spare back at the hotel?’

  ‘I’m not at a hotel here. What I came in is what I have.’

  ‘Are you here on your own then?’

  ‘Yes, it’s just me.’

  ‘But why are you on your own?’ he asked.

  ‘There’s nothing suspicious. Every couple of weeks I just treat myself to a trip somewhere new. It’s the adventurous spirit in me, I suppose.’

  ‘I can understand that. I joined the Navy to see the sea, as the saying goes.’

  ‘Have you seen the sea?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ve seen the four walls of a classroom so far. Next year I should be going somewhere, although I might not see the sea very much.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Submariner. They’ll be plenty of sea, but it’ll be on top of me.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound like much fun. Why do you want to do that?’

  ‘It’s a family tradition, plus, submariners get a better allowance and stay in hotels when in port.’

  ‘You must smell, though, when you come off the ship,’ she said as she sipped on the hot chocolate he had purchased for her.

  ‘You’ll not be let into the navy if you call it a ship.’

  ‘Why? What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘A submarine is always a boat. We submariners are a bit sensitive about it.’

  ‘I’ve offended you.’

  ‘No, of course you haven’t. Let’s get your clothes sorted out. There should be dry cleaners around here.’ He smiled at the girl. ‘And by the way, we don’t smell, the submarine is nuclear.’

  ‘You only glow in the dark?’

  ‘We probably do, but that’s handy if the electricity goes off.’

  In two hours, the clothes were returned and Ray Styles, future Sub-lieutenant, was in love, as was Sara. Their love was cemented that night in a hotel, not far from the marina where they had first met. She had phoned her parents in Exeter, telling them not to worry. She was fine, staying with a friend.

  ‘Your parents,’ said Ray, ‘what do they do? I never asked.’

  ‘I thought we were too busy to worry about parents,’ said Sara. ‘I doubt if mine would approve of me being here naked with you.’

  ‘Why not? It’s the twenty-first century.’

  ‘It’s not in India. That’s where they came from.’

  ‘I realised you were from that part of the world, but it seemed unimportant.’

  ‘It’s unimportant to me,’ she replied, ‘but they still seem to think it matters. They’d marry me off to the good son of a good family if I’d agree.’

  ‘And will you?’ he asked.

  ‘Never, although my two sisters did. One’s happy and living in London, plenty of money. The other one is miserable and living in a council flat somewhere up near Birmingham. I’ll make my own decisions as to whom and when I’ll marry.’

  ‘I’ll marry you.’ Ray Styles was serious.

  ‘You probably would,’ she laughed. ‘But we need to give it a bit of time. One night is hardly long enough to make a decision about a lifetime, now, is it?’

  ‘You’re probably right, but then you’re sensible.’

  ‘Why, aren’t you?’ she asked.

  ‘A person who joins the Navy to travel the world in a metal tube, what do you think?’

  ‘Crazy as a mad hatter, most people would say,’ replied Sara. ‘Not me, but most people.’ She leant over and kissed him.

  ***

  Belmarsh Prison’s interview room was a cheerful room on a particularly cheerful day, the sun was shining, the sky blue. It was the driest two weeks for the time of year on record and it aligned with Vane and Martin’s long-discarded report on global warming. It had been a good report, but it was buried deep in a government filing cabinet somewhere, never to surface. Their recommendation for an immediate reduction of twenty percent of greenhouse gases may have been accurate, but it was hardly conducive to an economy struggling to remain viable against the never relenting importation of Chinese manufactured goods.

  ‘Your appeal lawyers are here.’ It came as a complete shock to Shafi that he had a team of lawyers. It was more of a shock when he saw that it was the academics from the hospital.

  ‘How did you find the nursing staff at the hospital?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘The two on night duty had a great bedside manner.’ Shafi grinned.

  ‘That’s what we heard. We thought we’d come here and see you today. See what else we can deduce.’

  ‘Are you sure these walls don’t have ears?’ Shafi asked.

  ‘We’re fine. DCI Cook and DI Pickles checked it out,’ Andrew said.

  ‘I’ve not seen them for a while. What are they up to?’

  ‘They’re following up on some leads.’

  ‘And getting me out of here. Are they following up on that as well?’ Shafi asked anxiously. His time back i
n Belmarsh after the hospital had not been as pleasant as before. He had felt freedom, albeit for a brief period, and he wanted more.

  ‘It’s a done deal. It’s even been mentioned at the highest level,’ Frederick informed him.

  ‘The highest level?’ Shafi asked.

  ‘Number 10, but it will be officially denied,’ Andrew said.

  ‘The Prime Minister? Does that mean I’m famous?’

  ‘Infamous is the word you’re looking for.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Shafi’s vocabulary was limited.

  ‘You’re not known for your charitable contributions, or your ability to sing and dance,’ said Frederick. ‘You’re famous for your less desirable characteristics.’

  ‘Get me out of here, and I’ll be famously infamous.’ Shafi understood.

  ‘That’s what you’ll be,’ Frederick agreed.

  ‘We need focus,’ Andrew interjected. ‘We can’t stay here all day. We’re entitled to a couple of hours of your time. Any more and it will be suspicious.’

  ‘I’ve got one bit of news.’ Shafi smugly sat back on the chair with his arms folded. He would have toppled off the back had it not been firmly bolted to the floor.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘The Prof knows who the Master is.’

  ‘Did he give you a name?’ Frederick asked.

  ‘No, he was worried I may inadvertently mention it to my voice at the end of the phone, and then he’d be in trouble.’

  ‘What did he say?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘He met him once or twice to discuss the website. He just used his computer to surf around and figured it out. Even found his house.’

  ‘There’s no way he’ll tell you?’ Frederick asked.

  ‘If I tell him some more about me, then he may give me a bit extra,’ Shafi replied.

  ‘Why don’t you?’

  ‘I’ve said as much as I’m going to say to him and to you. He knows, but how you get it out of him is up to you, or I suppose Cook and Pickles.’

  ‘You reckon they’d get him to talk?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘Those two? I reckon they could get the Pope to renounce God.’

  ‘You’re probably right. It’s certain that they or some of their colleagues could be very persuasive.’ Andrew could only agree with Shafi.