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

by Phillip Strang

  ‘I’ll do that out of hours if you like,’ replied Isaac, ‘but you’ve no doubt called me on official business. I must act with the necessary formality.’

  ‘Okay, but I’ll call you Isaac. I need updates.’

  ‘Deputy PM, you’re aware that, for me to discuss this openly with you, it would be a breach of protocol. I need to go through my Commander as well as the PM.’

  ‘I know the protocol as well as anyone, but the Prime Minister’s on his way out. I’m determined to take his position, but the situation is more serious than my personal ambitions.’

  ‘I would agree,’ Isaac said.

  ‘You and your team have done the best you can. You stopped York Minster being destroyed, saved a lot of lives.’ Anne Argento was circumspect in her congratulations. She realised that the Counter Terrorism Command had achieved little in tangible results.

  ‘York Minster maybe, but we were unable to protect the churches.’ He still felt disappointment at the loss of life.

  'Isaac, what’s next? You’ve got to confide in me. They’ve hit the military, the Church. Is it the police?’

  ‘Frederick Vane and Andrew Martin believe it’s a strong possibility.’

  ‘And what are we doing to stop this?’ she asked.

  ‘The police are more diligent than most, but when and where…’

  ‘They’ll go after the big targets,’ the Deputy PM answered for the Detective Chief Inspector. ‘Isn’t that what your analysts will say, are saying?’

  ‘Exactly, but how and when is always pure conjecture,’ Isaac acknowledged.

  ‘What about a man undercover with the Islamic State? Have you managed to achieve that yet?’

  ‘We’re still working on that, but he’s been out of touch for a week or so.’

  ‘Is that okay with you?’ she asked.

  ‘We’re starting to worry, but there’s not much we can do.’

  ‘You think he may have gone over to their side? Is this the guy with the dubious background?’

  ‘Yes, he’s a true villain. It’s unlikely he’d join with them out of some religious dogma. He’s only interested in himself and what’s in it for him.’

  ‘He could join them if they persuaded him that it would be to his advantage?’ she said.

  ‘It’s possible, but I’d rule it out at this time.’

  ‘In politics, as in life, never discount the possible,’ she said. ‘What about the police?’

  ‘It’s still got to be New Scotland Yard. Failing that, they’ll aim to pick off some regional police stations.’

  ‘What’s the protection like at New Scotland Yard,’ she asked.

  ‘It’s tight, same as every else, but the Islamic State still manages to find a way through.’

  ‘What else are you up to?’ Anne Argento was still keen to pursue a personal relationship with the policeman.

  ‘We’re looking into how and who could have taken out the submarine.’ Isaac saw no reason to hide a new area of investigation. He knew he was possibly saying more than he should, but the situation was no longer a senior politician and a policeman discussing ‒ it was two friends heading towards a romantic entanglement.

  ‘Is that relevant?’ she asked.

  ‘Vane and Martin think it is.’

  ‘Why? What’s the importance?’

  ‘They believe that whoever managed to bring that off, is capable of something equally significant, even bigger,’ Isaac said.

  ‘Why do they think that?’

  ‘They believe that whoever sabotaged the submarine was coerced. They’re profiling the crew, comparing records of visits to the submarine while it was in port,’ Isaac explained.

  ‘What’s the number of visits got to do with it?’ she asked.

  ‘I supplied them with a naval submarine expert. He reckoned it would take a significant number of small bombs to take out the boat. He reckoned over a hundred and there is only a handful of personnel who could be responsible. They would have needed someone to take them on board and place them in position.’

  ‘It must have been one hell of a coercion, then,’ she said.

  ‘You’re right. We’ve got someone investigating.’

  ‘Keep me posted,’ said Anne.

  ‘I’m breaking the rules. I could be subjected to a disciplinary hearing.’ He felt the need to reaffirm his position.

  ‘For talking to the Prime Minister?’ she queried Isaac’s comment.

  ‘You’re still the Deputy Prime Minister.’

  ‘By the time the hearing comes up, I’ll be the Prime Minister, and you’ll celebrate with me and call me Anne.’

  ‘If that’s a Prime Ministerial command, then Anne it will be.’

  ‘It’ll be a personal request.’

  ‘I’ll still call you Anne and I will celebrate with you.’

  ***

  Khalid and Mustafa were proficient in their art. Shafi, strung up on a beam, repeatedly beaten till unconscious and then revived, was six days into his treatment. He had supplied all the information they had wanted after the first three days, but the Master, and especially Haji, wanted certainty.

  An admission under severe strain, only to be retracted when the pain ceased, was of limited validity. The Master had heeded Haji’s advice. He wanted a full conversion of Shafi, and then for him to return to the Counter Terrorism Command. However, instead of Shafi telling them about the activities of the Islamic State, he would reverse and tell the Master what the Counter Terrorism Command was up to.

  The analysts at the Office of National Statistics were another issue to consider. He wished he could save his daughter, but realised that it was only her who could achieve what was required. It was to be an attack that would signal that no one, and certainly no organisation in the country, was safe and that the Islamic State was coming.

  ‘Please let me go. Stop hurting me, I have told you all I know,’ Shafi pleaded with his captors.

  ‘It is for the Master to decide when you are suitably repentant. Until then, you will suffer.’ Khalid had enjoyed his time with Shafi, as had Mustafa.

  ‘Tell him that I am ready to embrace Allah, the Islamic State. I am willing to serve the Master.’

  ‘I don’t think he will believe you yet,’ Khalid said. ‘After a lifetime of whores, of drug dealings and petty crime, you will need more conversion.’

  ‘No, please don’t beat me anymore,’ Shafi pleaded.

  ‘Maybe not beating,’ said Khalid. ‘We need you unmarked for when you rejoin the Counter Terrorism Command.’

  ‘I will not go back to them. My place is with the Master.’

  It was another two days before the Master came to see Shafi and he was pleased with the work of Khalid and Mustafa.

  ‘Shafi, are you ready to embrace the cause?’ the Master asked.

  ‘I am ready. Please tell them to stop.’

  The Master turned to Khalid and Mustafa. ‘Have you administered the final treatment?’

  ‘Master, we have waited for you,’ Mustafa said. ‘We felt that you may wish to say a few words to our friend before and after the final treatment.’

  ‘You are right,’ the Master replied before turning to Shafi, who was once again strung to a beam, his arms bent backwards and secured with his feet barely touching the ground.

  ‘Shafi, every time you feel inclined to deviate from the cause, or attempt to betray us, you will remember what Khalid and Mustafa are about to do to you.’

  ‘Master, please don’t let them hurt me anymore. I will only serve you.’

  ‘You will while you are in pain and fear, but once released with food in your belly and your prick inside a whore you will forget.’

  ‘No, I won’t,’ Shafi said.

  ‘Unfortunately, I do not believe you, and neither does Haji. After the treatment, the thought of its pain will prevent you betraying us, and if you screw any more whores, you will be back here. Is that clear?’

  ‘Master, it is clear. Please don’t let them hurt me anymore.�
��

  ‘Khalid, Mustafa, the final treatment please, before we release our newest recruit back into the world.’

  ‘Master, it is our pleasure,’ Khalid replied as he connected an electrode to the tip of Shafi’s penis, then wrapped a copper wire around the big toe on his left foot.

  ‘Master, please stop them.’

  ‘No, Shafi. It is for your benefit.’

  It was Mustafa who wound the crank of the generator. It was Shafi, whose body arched, forced almost to unconsciousness.

  ‘Stop, Mustafa!’ the Master screamed. ‘He’s only to be punished, not destroyed.’

  ‘I was only making sure he did not forget.’

  ‘True, but that was enough. Cut him down. Bathe him and feed him, then bring him to me at my house when he is sufficiently rested. I will talk to him there.’

  ‘Shafi,’ the Master addressed the barely conscious man. ‘You will remember this day for the rest of your life. If at any time, you attempt to betray us, then you will return here, and I will not give the command for Mustafa to stop. Is that understood?’

  ‘Master, it is understood. I will not betray you,’ Shafi whimpered.

  ***

  ‘There is no record of a Vikram and Vinodhini Shenoy migrating to this country,’ Ed Pickles said.

  ‘Were they born here?’ Farhan asked. Now back in the London office, he was following up on the only promising lead that Frederick Vane and Andrew Martin had identified.

  ‘It doesn’t seem likely, either,’ Ed said. ‘From what we’ve ascertained, they both had retained strong regional accents indicative of being born in present-day India or Pakistan.’

  ‘Sara Styles had apparently been born here,’ Farhan added. ‘She spoke with an English accent.’

  ‘That may be the case, but who is she?’

  ‘No records for her either, I assume?’ Farhan surmised.

  ‘There are records for her,’ said Ed, ‘but they only go back for one year, employment and tax records. Before that, we can’t find her mentioned anywhere.’

  ‘Surely we can find her, though? She must have been educated here,’ Farhan said.

  ‘We’ve managed to secure a recording of her wedding, so we can hear her voice. It should direct us to an area and a possible school. It’s a bit of a needle in a haystack, though.’

  ‘Maybe it’s best to disregard her parents – assuming they were her parents – and focus on Sara Styles?’ Farhan said.

  ‘That’s how we see it,’ said Ed. ‘We’re bringing in a linguistics expert to evaluate her speech. We should have an answer by tomorrow. Do we know where she is?’

  ‘She’s staying with her late husband’s parents, down in Devon.’

  ‘So where was she for the last few months?’

  ‘She came in on a flight from India,’ said Farhan. ‘Apart from that, there’s not much we can tell you. Is there any advantage in following up in India?’

  ‘We’re not sure who we can trust there,’ Ed said.

  ***

  Peter Downsford had been used by Counter Terrorism Command before. In his fifties, thinning on top with a goatee beard, he was one of the foremost coaches for English regional dialects and accents. If you were an American actor looking to speak English, or an English actor aiming to crack the movie scene in Hollywood with a solid range of American accents, he was the first choice. He was also adept at identifying the myriad regional variances in England, and it was for this reason that Ed Pickles had called him in. Vetted by security and cleared under the Official Secrets Act, his discretion was assured.

  ‘What do you want from me?’ Downsford asked.

  ‘We have a recording of a female. We need you to tell us all you can about her.’

  ‘Fine, let me see what I can do,’ he said. ‘Tell me no background history. I need to hear it clean.’

  Thirty minutes later, Peter Downsford was ready with an initial evaluation. ‘It’s a London accent with a trace of the Indian subcontinent.’

  ‘What do you mean by the Indian subcontinent?’ Ed asked.

  ‘I’d say the speaker is fluent in either Urdu or Hindi.’

  ‘Can you be more precise?’ Ed asked.

  ‘Given time, I could probably get closer, but let’s clarify,’ said Downsford. ‘Is this person from the subcontinent?’

  ‘Yes, but we believe she was born, or at least raised, in this country.’

  ‘That’s clear,’ said Downsford. ‘Her English accent is too well-developed. She probably learnt to speak English as a young child.’

  ‘Can you isolate the area in London? Is there any sign of a West Country accent?’ Ed asked.

  ‘West Country? By that, I assume you mean Somerset, Devon, Cornwall. Which one are you interested in?’

  ‘Devon?’ Ed replied.

  ‘Devon would be difficult.’

  ‘Okay, let’s try for London,’ Ed said.

  ‘I’ll rule out East London. She shows some cockney, but her raised vowels and London vowel shift are subdued.’

  ‘Don’t explain what that all means, just give me your results.’

  ‘Cockney is at its strongest in East London. I’d say she was more likely to the west and north of the central business district, and there is good diction in her speech as well.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Ed asked.

  ‘I’d say there are three clear distinctions in her voice. One, she is a fluent speaker in either Urdu or Hindi. Secondly, she was born or came to this country as a very young child…’

  ‘And thirdly?’ Ed impatiently asked.

  ‘She either went to a private school, boarding probably, or she’s had speech training.’

  ‘Which one do you favour?’ Ed asked.

  ‘I’d go for a boarding school, probably close to London. She most likely came home weekends or the subcontinent accent would be more subdued. A speech trainer would have suppressed the Indian accent.’ Paul Downsford looked up into the air, apparently thinking before replying. ‘Yes, I’d definitely go for a boarding school.’

  ***

  New Scotland Yard, located on Broadway, was heavily secured with surveillance cameras, armed policemen and security barriers. Yasser Lahham had hacked the building. He had seen the flaws in its security, flaws that the Master intended to take full advantage of. Ahmed Yousef and Fouad Abdulla were to be the martyrs.

  ‘Is it clear what the plan is?’ Durrani, the bomb maker, asked of his latest protégées.

  ‘Yes, we know what is required,’ Ahmed Yousef, the brighter of the two, answered. A gangly youth of nineteen from a broken home, he had changed from crime to devotion to the cause as a result of a Firebrand Mullah, who lectured at the Mosque he frequented in the North of England. Fouad Abdulla, the second of the martyrs, was neither bright nor devoted. He had just come along because his mate, Ahmed, had said it would be cool.

  ‘We’re going to die?’ A short, pimply youth of eighteen, due to a deprived upbringing and living six to a room, Fouad Abdulla was virtually uneducated, barely knew the Koran. Literate to no more than the level of a ten-year-old, he blamed his life on the infidels, not on his stupidity.

  ‘No,’ Durrani said. ‘You’re going to be martyred.’

  ‘And the virgins?’ Fouad at least knew something from the teachings at the Mosque he had frequented with Ahmed Yousef.

  ‘They will be yours.’ Durrani was tired of the increasingly stupid martyrs. Fouad appeared at least capable of the task and, with his babyish features, he would be unchallenged as he entered the most important police station in the country.

  ‘Ahmed, explain the plan to me?’ Durrani was anxious to ascertain that at least one of the martyrs knew what was expected of them.

  ‘At ten o’clock tomorrow morning, we will walk up Caxton Street…’

  ‘And then?’ Durrani asked.

  ‘I will turn to the left and Fouad will turn to the right on Broadway.’

  ‘And what do you need to watch out for?’

  ‘We should
aim to keep to the opposite side of the road to where the cameras are.’

  ‘Correct, and then?’

  ‘At fifteen minutes past ten, we are to both walk towards the vehicle security gates located at either end of the building. Mine is on Broadway, and Fouad’s is on Dacre Street.’

  ‘Fouad, and what do you do then?’

  ‘We use the magnetic cards that you’ve given us, and the barriers will open,’ said Fouad.

  ‘Correct,’ said Durrani. ‘We must thank the Prof for those.’ Yasser Lahham had managed to hack the department that controlled the security passes. It had been the most difficult challenge of his career, but it had enabled him to get some passes manufactured that would give entry to the building - the names on the cards, fictitious.

  Security surveillance software at New Scotland Yard would soon pick up the anomaly, but the two intended martyrs only needed two minutes to enter into the main part of the building, ten if they were going to hit the Counter Terrorism Command and the Commissioner of the London Metropolitan Police.

  ‘And once you are in the building, what then?’ Durrani asked them both.

  ‘I’m to take the lift to the fifth floor using my swipe card,’ Ahmed Yousef said. ‘That’s assuming I’m unchallenged.’

  ‘And if you’re challenged?’

  ‘I move as fast as I can into the building and detonate the explosives.’

  ‘And if you’re not challenged?’

  ‘I head to the right after exiting the lift and move quickly to the Commissioner’s office. I aim to get as close as I can to the Commissioner and then I martyr myself.’

  ‘Fouad, what about you?’ Durrani asked.

  ‘I head for the fourth floor, turn to the left and locate office 402,’ said Fouad. ‘I enter and commit myself to martyrdom.’

  ‘Fine, that’s the office of the Counter Terrorism Command. You both understand fully what is required? Allah be with you.’ Durrani felt that they were both capable of the task. He was optimistic for a successful result.

  Chapter 23

  Langley Ladies’ College had a proud heritage dating back to its founder, Elizabeth Langley, in the 1880s. It was progressive then as it was now. It was an unusual place for Farhan Ahmed to be. The college prided itself on its encompassing of students from all cultural and religious backgrounds and, of the three hundred and fifty students, over two hundred and eighty were from overseas. There were the two daughters of a Saudi prince, who drank like fishes if given the chance, two daughters of an American movie star known for her many lovers, a Russian billionaire’s daughter, as well as a good selection of the financially well-heeled in London. It was here that Sara Styles, or then known as Sara Aslam, had once attended.