There had been a succession of jobs, mostly dead-end, before he realised that the prison service suited his diffident attitude to life. Regular salary, flexible hours and, with the prisoners locked up most of the time, not much to do. His summation proved to be correct. The first six years had been mainly open prisons, low security with mostly white-collar inmates, all classified non-violent. In time, and with seniority and a clean track record, he had been transferred to Her Majesty’s Prison, Belmarsh. Even he had been enthusiastic initially. A chance to do some real work, supervising some real prisoners, some hard cases, and the extra money would come in handy now that his wife had given birth to their fourth child, another daughter.
His enthusiasm had not lasted long. These were not hard cases, they were terrorists, total ratbags. They were not only dangerous, they were mad. Her Majesty’s Prison Belmarsh presented a new set of challenges. Here, they would happily kill you for no other reason than you were not of their religion, or they didn’t like the way you looked at them. Attempts at a transfer out of the prison back to somewhere more agreeable had fallen on deaf ears.
After one year at the prison, he decided he had to put a plan in place to leave the service. He had seen the other officers making tidy sums by assisting in the smuggling, which was rife. No drugs, he said to himself, but what harm could there be in a phone, some food, a few letters?
Shafi, the murderer and drug dealer, was already supporting a couple of prison officers. He thought that a third wouldn’t be a burden. It was a month later that Seb DeLeon took out a few letters in the lining of his jacket. He received one hundred in used notes for his trouble. He saw that he needed twenty to thirty thousand pounds and, if he focussed on the letter run, he could make that easy, maybe within twelve, no more than fourteen months. His parents were anxious to retire and, if he could give them at least half the value of their restaurant, it was his.
‘Shafi, I need more than a hundred each time,’ Seb said in the courtyard one Saturday morning.
‘That’s all there is for letters. If you want to bring in a phone or two, maybe some essentials, then I could arrange maybe two hundred.’
‘How will I conceal these?’ DeLeon asked.
‘It’s no problem,’ Shafi said.
‘They’ll check me as I bring them in. Even I’m screened by security coming in and out.’
‘And who does the screening?’
‘The prison officers, you know that.’
‘And why will they check you?’
‘It’s the regulations.’
‘And why won’t they check you?’
‘Why would they do that? It’s a disciplinary offence.’
‘It’s only an offence if it’s reported,’ Shafi said.
‘You’re right, but why wouldn’t they report it?’
‘You’ve been in prisons long enough. You know the answer.’
‘They’re on the take as well?’
‘Of course they are.’
‘How are they paid?’
‘The same way you are. Someone on the outside slips them an envelope down the pub, on the bus.’
‘I thought it was only a few of the officers on the take?’
‘A few, a lot, what does it matter?’ Shafi said.
‘It doesn’t. I’ll bring in phones, essentials, but no drugs. Is that clear?’
‘That’s clear, no drugs.’
Eleven months, with no issues, and Seb had accumulated eighteen thousand pounds in a savings account at the local bank not far from his home. Another six months, another fifteen thousand pounds if he pushed it and he’d have enough for the restaurant. He decided to talk to Shafi, see if there was a chance of an increase in pay.
‘I need an increase for each run. There is a new prison officer and he was anxious to pat me down, until one of the others distracted his attention.’
‘It’s pretty certain he’s here to clamp down on the smuggling,’ Shafi said.
‘Are you saying that you’re going to slow down?’ Seb DeLeon asked.
‘No, not at all. We’re just going to have to increase the value of each run.’
‘Are you talking about drugs? You know I’m opposed to them.’
‘Why? You’ve been running them for the last six months.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Did you ever switch those phones on?’ Shafi asked.
‘No, why should I?’
‘They don’t work without a battery, do they?’
‘Are you saying they were all carrying drugs?’
‘Most of them were phones, although a few had no batteries inside. A good place to conceal some heroin, don’t you think? Prison Office DeLeon, how do you feel now that you know you’re a drug smuggler?’
‘I feel cheated that you did not pay me enough.’ He was not as upset as he thought he should have been, but he wanted money and here was leverage. ‘I want five hundred a run.’
‘I’ll play fair,’ Shafi said. ‘I’ll make it three hundred, no questions asked.’
‘No questions from my side. You’ll need to deal with the security screenings.’
‘You’ll not have any problems,’ said Shafi. ‘Especially from any new and enthusiastic prison officer.’
‘Are you going to pay him as well?’
‘I’ve no idea. There are some people outside who’ll check him out. Is he honest? Does he have a vice? Or do we just ensure he comes down with a severe bout of food poisoning on the day you’re doing a run? It’s not for you to worry about,’ Shafi said.
‘I won’t, as long as you ensure my money,’ Prison Officer Seb DeLeon replied.
Chapter 14
Haji, Soapy’s grandfather, real name Fraz Wahlah, was an esteemed member of his community. He remembered as a child the end of British Colonial rule in India and the mass migrations of Muslims to West Pakistan from India, and the Hindus moving in the other direction. Fourteen million had made the trek after five hundred thousand had died in the earlier genocide. He had been ten at the time. Now, in his late seventies, he was reaching the end of a devout life. A short, slightly bent-over man as a result of arthritis that had affected him in recent years, he still maintained a surprising vitality. He saw the Islamic State as the solution for his country of adoption. The Master wanted to know about Shafi, where he was and who his appeal lawyers were. He would find out for him.
It was as he walked down a side street off Edgware Road that Shafi was accosted by an elderly man, who had singled him out amongst the crowds.
‘Shafi, it is good to see you!’
‘I am sorry. I do not know you,’ Shafi replied.
‘Everyone calls me Haji.’
‘Then I will also. Anyone who has made the pilgrimage to Mecca has my total respect.’
It had been several weeks, and no unusual contacts or behaviour on Shafi’s part had deemed it safe for Haji to approach. Shafi, for his part, had been maintaining a low profile. He was now a government employee, with a regular salary, and he knew that DCI Cook and DI Pickles could have him back inside within minutes if he did not keep on the straight and narrow. Besides, being on the right side of the law suited him.
‘I know you were in prison,’ Haji said.
‘Please keep your voice down. I prefer that my past is not revealed.’
‘I apologise.’
‘You’ve not explained how you know I was in prison.’ Shafi realised that Haji was somehow related to the Master. It was the meeting that DCI Cook and DI Pickles had been hoping for.
‘You needed someone on the outside to help with your business empire inside.’
‘You are associated with the voice on the phone?’ Shafi asked.
‘Yes, but I am not that voice.’
‘You have the voice of an elderly man,’ said Shafi. ‘The voice on the phone is a younger person. I hope you are not offended by my reference to your age?’
‘My age is a matter of respect in our religion. I am neither offended nor saddened that I have reach
ed an age where the years are not many before I am in heaven with my beloved wife.’
‘The voice, have you met him?’ Shafi asked.
‘We are good friends. We regularly pray together.’
‘He appears to be a clever man.’
‘He is brilliant,’ Haji said. ‘It is he who will ensure the future for our people.’
‘I would like to meet him. I need employment and my skills are known to him.’
‘Your release, is it unconditional?’
‘No, I need to report on a regular basis, but the majority of my time is free. I would need to be careful, but I’m not about to go and work behind the counter in a shop.’
‘Why did they let you out?’
‘The police officers were drunk.’
‘Which police officers?’
‘The ones who said I killed the gypsy.’
‘And were they?’
‘Yes,’ said Shafi. ‘But by the time they arrived at the police station, with me in handcuffs, they had sobered up with a few cups of coffee and some strong mints to conceal the smell of alcohol.’
‘They weren’t questioned at the police station as to their condition?’ Haji queried.
‘Why would they have been?’
‘They were charging you with murder. It wasn’t a parking offence.’
‘A Pakistani drug dealer who had just knifed a gypsy. Do you think they were looking too closely?’
‘Shafi, you are right. They were too prejudiced to care for either you or the gypsy.’
‘That’s how it was.’
‘So, why did they come forward and admit to being drunk?’
‘I’ve no idea. Maybe they found religion. What do I care? It’s not my concern. I just need to earn some money.’
‘You are right, what does it matter?’ Haji said, although it was clear that the reason was important. He would need to find out.
***
The meeting between Clifford Bell and Anne Argento had been tough. Neither had a great deal of tolerance for the other politically and, apart from a party conference while in opposition, when she had inadvertently ended up in his bed, there had been little sign of affection or friendship since.
Rohan Jones knew of the liaison, but they did not know that he had been watching the signals between the two on that evening. He was not the senior adviser to the Prime Minister without reason. It paid to know what was going on, who was sleeping with whom, and who could be leveraged, coerced when the time came. Their romantic interlude was political dynamite. He kept it in strictest confidence, but if either Clifford Bell or Anne Argento did not follow his advice, or acted in a manner contrary to the wellbeing of the party, the country, or, more importantly, the benefit of Rohan Jones, then he would use his trump card.
‘Anne, my dear Anne,’ the Prime Minister said.
‘Prime Minister, I’m here for the benefit of the party, not a social get together.’ She was playing tough. She had him over a barrel; she was not going to start their new association by acting as his lackey.
‘The party, of course.’
‘Good, then let’s get down to business,’ she said. ‘You’re in trouble, and you need me as your deputy.’
‘I resent the aspersion that I’m in trouble.’
‘Prime Minister, Anne,’ Rohan interjected. ‘I’m afraid we’re letting past animosities interfere in what should be a congenial and professional discussion.’
‘You’re right,’ Anne conceded.
‘Rohan, as usual, you’re the voice of reason and good sense,’ the Prime Minister said.
‘Anne, Clifford – if I may be so bold as to use Christian names,’ said Rohan. ‘This country faces possibly its greatest challenge since the Second World War.’
‘It’s greater than that. This time, we could be conquered,’ Anne said.
‘Do you really believe it’s as serious as that?’ the Prime Minister asked.
‘I do.’
‘I see that the fundamental differences as to the seriousness of the situation are still unclear,’ the Prime Minister said.
‘I don’t see that they’re unclear,’ Anne Argento replied. ‘You, as the Prime Minister, want discussion, negotiation and consensus. You want the Muslim communities to deal with the terrorists.’
‘I see it as the solution.’
‘You are wrong. It just won’t work. You need to fight fire with fire. Those who commit these acts are barbarians.’
‘Barbarians, Savages who are deluded in their methods, but they are a minority of the people of their faith.’ The Prime Minister continued to defend his stance.
‘And you somehow think the people of their faith, the peaceful majority, will deal with the situation?’
‘I do,’ the Prime Minister replied.
‘Fine. Assuming it works, how long do you think this will take?’
‘What will take?’ the Prime Minister missed the inference of her question.
‘Please, don’t be condescending,’ replied Anne. ‘How long before the bombings, the deaths of innocent people, will cease?’
‘Anne, I find your manner and your style both disrespectful and offensive.’
‘Anne, Clifford,’ Rohan Jones intervened into what was rapidly becoming a brawl of two politically savvy individuals. ‘You two must unite if we are to remain in power. It will make little difference as to who is right or wrong if you are both sitting on the Opposition benches.’
‘I’ll concede that we need to unite, and I’ll become your deputy.’ Anne Argento, the current Secretary of State for the Environment, Food and Rural Affairs, future Deputy Prime Minister, was not pleased with her decision. However, snapping at the Prime Minister’s heels from the cabinet room was preferable to be being confined to the backbenches without portfolio.
‘I’ll accept Anne as my deputy, but it comes with conditions.’ Clifford Bell had not finished.
‘What conditions?’ said Anne. ‘Am I meant to support your stance of how to control the situation?’
‘I expect that in public and in Parliament.’
‘And here within the party room and at Number Ten, do you expect my unequivocal support?’ she asked.
‘Will I be able to stop you criticising when we’re in private or the cabinet room?’
‘No, I see it as my democratic right as a registered voter and your loyal deputy to bear pressure on you at every opportunity.’
‘Don’t give me the registered voter nonsense,’ said the Prime Minister angrily. ‘You’re after my job. Any attempt to undermine me within the party, or any criticism in public, and I’ll have you sitting so far up the back of the House that anyone trying to find you will need a pair of binoculars.’
‘I will not openly criticise you in public,’ she said. ‘However, I will say if asked, that within the party, there is always vigorous debate, which is not only healthy but democratic.’
‘Then that is the best I can expect. It will be an interesting few months while we learn to adjust to each other.’
‘Prime Minister, I don’t think we will ever adjust to each other. There’s hardly likely to be a time when we will be that united that we will be seen as bosom buddies.’
Rohan Jones could only look out of the window and smile. They had been bosom buddies once. He had listened through the closed door of the hotel room at the party conference years before. Bosoms had been very much on the agenda.
***
Ayub Askar was an unpleasant little man, barely nineteen. His birth in a refugee camp in Kenya, his migration to England at the age of one, and the opportunity of a good education in a country that had given him sanctuary should have made him grateful. His parents were and, whereas they had not reclaimed the wealth that Somalia, their homeland, had given them, they were comfortable.
‘Ayub, we are concerned. You do not thank this country as we do,’ his father said.
‘Wasn’t it the imperialist British who ruled our country?’ Ayub said.
‘You cannot l
et history dictate your life,’ his father replied.
‘What you say is not what I hear at the Mosque.’
‘We respect the Mullah as we do Islam, but we are your parents. It is for a child to heed the words of his parents.’
‘I want to see an Islamic State,’ Ayub stated bluntly.
‘Where, do you mean in Somalia?’
‘No, here in England.’
‘But why? These people do not judge us. We have the freedom to worship who we like, to dress as we wish. They have made us citizens of their country, and treated us as equals.’
‘They are promiscuous, they drink alcohol, and they don’t respect Allah.’ Ayub mouthed the words of his Mullah.
‘Allah and their God is the same God. We are all children of Abraham.’
‘That is not what the Mullah says,’ Ayub replied.
‘Then he is wrong.’
‘You are criticising the Mullah?’ Ayub showed disrespect to his father by raising his voice.
‘I do not believe he would say such a thing. He is a moderate, forgiving man.’
‘The Mullah you talk of has gone,’ Ayub said more calmly than his previous outburst.
‘Then I am sorry. He was a good man.’
‘That may be, but so are you, Father, and I can no longer agree with you.’
‘Then, my son, I have failed in my duties as a father.’
‘You have not failed. You belong to a different generation. I am a new generation that wants revenge. These people will come to embrace Islam the way that I have.’
‘And if they don’t?’
‘Then they will perish.’
‘Are you condoning the terrorists’ attacks in the country?’ his father asked.
‘Condone? Why shouldn’t I? They are not terrorists. They are freedom fighters for Islam. I honour them.’
‘I am saddened that you align to a cause that I can only see as savage.’
‘I will remain your son, but I will no longer cherish your beliefs as my own. I must follow my faith and assist the Islamic State as I see fit.’
‘Are you involved?’ his father asked.
The DCI Isaac Cook Thriller Series: Books 4 - 6: Murder (The DCI Isaac Cook Thrillers Series Boxset) Page 56
