Criminal Revenge

by Conrad Jones

  “We’ll see how he reacts when he opens the picture file.” He sent the message. A muffled cry echoed down the corridor. It was creepy in the darkness.

  “Mamood doesn’t sound happy. Nick has been telling him what his father does for a living. He has some of the police photographs from punishment hits they have been associated with, and he’s spelling out how his father was involved. I think it’s a habit he picked up in prison, mentally torturing his cellmates,” David said. Nick had developed an evil streak during his spell in prison.

  “I think it’s strange. The poor young lad will never look at his father the same again!” Richard feigned concern. He shuddered at the thought of what Nick was doing to Mamood, but somewhere inside the fact that he was suffering pleased him. It would go some of the way to paying the debt that Ashwan, Malik and the others owed to Sarah.

  “Don’t worry, there is nothing that will link back to us.”

  “He hasn’t let Mamood see his face. I almost feel sorry for the boy.” David raised an eyebrow in surprise. Richard shrugged and shook his head. “Well he will be suitably enlightened when he leaves here. I wonder if he knew what his father was involved in, not what he expected, I’ll bet you. He’ll never look him in the eye again.”

  “Just remember that they never had a second thought for Sarah. None of them did. Tell him to hurry up, will you. We need to go over the ransom money pickup again.” Richard turned on the light, illuminating a large workshop area. There were two long tables in the centre of the basement, neatly stored tools hanging on a pin board nailed to the wall.

  “The rest of the devices are ready to go.”

  David walked to the first table and looked closely at an oil filter.

  “Will this fit onto their cars?” David asked.

  “No, but it will fit onto their delivery vans, and there’s enough Tovex in there to blow a vehicle to bits. It would never be spotted, and it would take a forensic team a month to piece the remnants of the filter back together.”

  A pile of large padded envelopes sat next to the filters. David reached for one. They were letter bombs, ready and waiting to go.

  “Don’t touch them, David,” Richard shook his head and his fat cheeks wobbled as he spoke. “They’re stable, but the circuit wiring isn’t fixed yet.”

  David nodded and smiled. The table stretched fifteen yards and it was littered with mobile phones, vehicle stereos, digital cameras and an assortment of homemade limpet mines. They were all explosive devices manufactured from the fertile mind of Richard Bernstein.

  A Blackberry on the desk rang and the screen flashed. David reached for it.

  “BANG!” Richard shouted and grabbed David’s shoulder. He jumped back from the table.

  “You wanker, Einstein!” he laughed. David shook his head as he looked along the benches. They were lined with a plethora of household objects; every one of them had been converted into a deadly explosive device. “Nice work, Einstein. Nice work indeed. We are going to blow Malik Shah and his house of cards to smithereens.”

  “It’s payback time, bro!”

  “We’ve waited a long time.”

  “I know, but it’s the right time,” Richard said seriously. “We had to wait for Nick’s release. They ruined his life, too.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Sarah Bernstein – School Days

  Detective Sergeant Aspel raised his head towards the grey clouds that obscured the sky, breathing in deeply. He was trying to calm down, but it wasn’t working. His job was becoming more impossible every year, and the frustration had already given him two ulcers and an alcohol problem. Two months ago he would have lit up a Marlborough when he was stressed, but he had quit, and now he used breathing techniques to make the cravings go away. It was having limited success.

  “Does it work?” Detective Wallace asked.

  “Does what work?”

  “The deep breathing, does it work?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want a cigarette?” Wallace took his packet of Bensons from his brown leather jacket. He constantly tempted his boss to lapse back to smoking, much to the annoyance of his superior. “Go on, have one, it’ll make you feel better.”

  “Fuck off, Wallace.”

  “Charming, I’m sure.” Wallace drew deeply on his Benson and made a fuss of blowing the smoke out slowly. It drifted on the breeze towards his ex-smoking colleague.

  “I don’t know how you smoke that shit,” Aspel frowned at his colleague. Bensons were the strongest end of the cigarette market, and certainly not the detective’s smoke of choice. “If I ever smoke again, it won’t be that crap.”

  “You know you’ll probably get hit by a bus?”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Now you’ve given up smoking, you’ll probably get run over by a bus instead of getting lung cancer.”

  “Thanks for that encouraging thought, with friends like you who needs enemies?”

  “What do you think the Crown Prosecution clowns will do?” Wallace asked seriously, all levity gone from his voice. The Crown Prosecution Service had the final say as to whether a case would be taken through the courts or not. Their role was to protect public finances by highlighting cases with weak evidence or evidence that couldn’t be submitted. If they felt that a prosecution would not end up with a conviction, then they would not step into the courtroom. The police were constantly at loggerheads with them.

  “We’ll have to wait and see.” Aspel closed his eyes and breathed deeply again. When he opened them he was looking into the stony gaze of Queen Victoria. Her bronze statue was situated outside the main court buildings in the Liverpool city centre. The passing of time and the salt air had turned the metal statue green. “The whole thing revolves around Sarah Bernstein’s testimony. The boss thinks that she’ll be crucified in a courtroom.” He looked at his wristwatch. There were groups of people scattered over the square; some of them shopping, others having a break from work. Life in the big city went on regardless of the traumas taking place in the city’s courthouse.

  Wallace stumped out his cigarette and the detectives walked in silence back towards the courtrooms. They showed their identity cards and bypassed the queue for the metal detectors which provided the first line of defence against terrorists and hit men. The queue moved slowly as people waited patiently in line. The Bernstein family were inside, seated to the left hand side of a large waiting area. Four courtrooms led from the lobby area, and a number of interview rooms and antechambers were situated to the rear of the ground floor. The entire area was panelled with dark walnut, making it seem austere and intimidating. It was the type of place that made people speak in whispers automatically, almost cathedral-like. The detectives navigated their way through the seating area, attracting several abusive comments from local lags and their families. Many of them had encountered the officers before during their criminal careers. The seating area was full of people waiting, wearing a mixture of cheap suits and designer sportswear. As they approached the Bernstein family, a cloaked court usher entered the waiting area and called their name. Mr Bernstein stood and acknowledged the court official.

  “Mr Bernstein?” the usher greeted him. His wispy grey hair greased back against his mottled scalp. He was tall and skeletal, and his black cloak of office made him look rather like a vampire. “We need your daughter, and either you or your wife as the responsible adult.”

  “We would both like to be present,” Mr Bernstein replied. He glanced nervously at his wife. Mrs Bernstein nodded her head in the affirmative. She wanted to be next to her little girl while she suffered this terrible ordeal.

  “I’m afraid that it must be one or the other. We have to keep the meeting as informal as possible.”

  The detectives neared the family and Mr Bernstein turned to greet them. Detective Sergeant Aspel shook his hand firmly, and he noted how clammy it felt. He was obviously worried for his daughter.

  “They’re saying that we both can’t go in wi
th Sarah?” Mr Bernstein was looking for some support.

  “It’s probably better if you go, Mr Bernstein. Your wife doesn’t need to hear the gory details.”

  “I’m not sure I do, either,” Mr Bernstein said grimly. “I’ll go with her.” He turned to his wife and placed his hands on her shoulders. He leaned over and kissed her cheek. As he pulled away, a tear ran down her face. “Come on, Sarah.”

  Sarah Bernstein stood up. Her hair was braided into two plaits, making her look her age. She wore a bottle green pleated skirt, below the knee, and a green tweed jacket which hid her bump. To anyone watching she looked like a prim and proper young schoolgirl. The prosecution barrister had been very specific about her appearance at the meeting. The Crown Prosecution Service had to be convinced that she had been violated against her will. The slightest hint that the sex had been consensual would blow the case out of the water. Her mother grabbed her hand and patted it gently; a sudden sob brought more tears to her eyes.

  “This way, please,” the usher said firmly.

  “Will you be there?” Mr Bernstein asked the detectives.

  “I’m afraid not, Mr Bernstein. The Crown need to be convinced that we haven’t coerced the victim in any way. There should be no pressure on the victim during the interview.”

  Mr Bernstein nodded and turned slowly to follow the usher. He waited a moment to allow Sarah to walk in front of him. Detective Wallace saw the look of distaste on his face as his daughter walked away. If things were bad between them now, then this meeting would compound things further, but it had to be done. Wallace had seen enough rape cases to know that the defence lawyers would tear a victim to pieces on the stand if there were any inconsistencies in their allegations whatsoever. The purpose of today’s interview was to verify that the evidence was watertight. Wallace didn’t think that it was, in fact her evidence had more holes in it than a Swiss cheese. He looked at his colleague and the look in his eye told him that he felt the same way.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Major Investigation Team

  Superintendent Alec Ramsay positioned himself to the left hand side of a bank of screens. The sun’s dying rays were reflecting from the screen, blurring the images for some in the room.

  “Pull the blinds, Linzie, please,” Alec called to a raven-haired detective at the back of the room. She was a looker, and several heads followed her shapely form as she crossed to the window.

  “Yes, guv,” she said, flicking a switch on the wall, and the blinds closed automatically without making a sound. The blinding sun was gone and the room was cooler. There was a tension in the air as the Major Investigation Team prepared to collate their findings.

  “Okay, let’s start at the beginning.” A picture of the mosque appeared. “What have we got on the mosque?”

  “The building is owned by the British Muslim Council, guv,” a bald detective spoke. He had a Mexican moustache that made him like the gay biker from the Village People. “They bought the building from Liverpool Borough three years ago and refurbished it. It’s significant because it’s the first building in Britain where Islam was practised. The refurbishment was paid for by private donations. We’ve checked the list of donations from local businessmen, and Malik Shah is on there.”

  “How much did he donate?” Alec asked, unsure what the significance was, but he wanted to know.

  “Undisclosed, guv.”

  “Has he attended this mosque?”

  “Not as far as we know, guv, but we haven’t finished trawling through the visitors’ books yet.

  “Does he attend any mosque?” Alec thought aloud. They needed to build a full profile of Shah and his associates. Their habits and behaviour had to be studied and analysed.

  “Not that we know of, guv.”

  “The donation would explain why Imran Patel attended the opening. He represents his boss, Shah.”

  “I think so. Patel and his wife were pictured at the opening of a boxing gym in Huyton six months ago, and at a nursery school nearby in May last year. Both projects were funded by donations from local Asian businessmen.” The detective looked up from his notes. “Shah’s name is on both lists of donators.”

  “Is he now? He’s a proper Robin Hood!” Alec shook his head. “If he keeps his local community happy, they’re less likely to inform, I suppose. What else on the mosque?”

  “Pretty much it, guv.”

  “Okay, the casualties.” Alec clicked the remote and the crime scene pictures flicked onto the screen.

  “Angela Williams, graduated from Chester University, failed her police entrance selection programme due to a chronic asthma condition. She became a traffic warden last year, and she has no discipline on her record. Her husband is unemployed, no criminal record either, guv.” Trevor Lewis put down one file, and picked up another. Lewis was a red-faced man at least thirty pounds over his fighting weight. “James Horace, a forty-year-old photographer for the Echo. He had one conviction for possession of cocaine, twelve years ago, guv, and then there’s the Patels, obviously.”

  “Okay, Trevor, concentrate on the Patel family. I want to know everything there is to know about them,” Alec said, nodding to reinforce the point. He was certain Imran Patel had been the target, but they had to explore every avenue.

  “What have we got on potential bombers?”

  “I’ve got a list from the Counter Terrorist Unit of possible suspects, guv,” Nickie Weaver crossed her legs and smoothed her trousers with her hand as she spoke. “There’s a small chapter of Combat 18, based at a pub in Bootle. There are nine registered members and twenty-three affiliates. Grievous, ABH, burglary, affray, nothing jumps off the page, guv. CTU have their meeting room bugged, and they have nothing to indicate that they could pull off an attack like this one.”

  “They bugged their meetings?”

  “Yes, guv.” There were a few muted giggles around the room.

  “I bet those recordings are priceless!”

  “Do you want me to get hold of one, guv?”

  “No, Nickie, I’ll give it a miss this time,” he smiled and motioned for her to continue.

  “There used to be a fairly large following of the National Front, around the Toxteth area, but it’s dwindled down to half a dozen or so members. One of the original founders, Michael Street, stood as a BNP candidate in the last local elections. He seems to be a hard-core racist, guv, criminal damage, riotous affray, assault with a deadly weapon, and incitement to riot. He served six months in ninety-eight for the assault charge. His medical records show that he has been treated for alcohol addiction.”

  “Our bomb maker isn’t a drunken thug.” Alec dismissed Street as a serious suspect immediately.

  “He’s on record threatening to burn down any mosques that are built in the city, guv.”

  “Okay, have CTU pulled him in?”

  “Everyone on these lists has been pulled in, questioned and released.”

  “Are they looking elsewhere?” Alec wanted to know if the terrorist unit were spreading their net wider, looking for other possible extremist groups further afield.

  “Yes, guv, so far nothing to report.”

  Alec wasn’t surprised. This bomb wasn’t the work of egg-throwing racist skinheads; it had been set off by experts. The image on the screen changed again, and the devastated van appeared on the screen.

  “What do we know about the device itself?” Alec looked to Will Naylor. His team had the newest information from forensics.

  “Forensics found the remnants of at least six detonators, guv. The explosive compound had been cooked and mixed with aluminium powder and diesel, which increases the heat on detonation and ensures that all the fertiliser explodes. There were three metal drums packed with explosive, and wrapped with homemade shrapnel, ball bearings and screws.”

  “Why would they need so many detonators?” Smithy asked. His ginger hair was ruffled and unruly.

  “Guv?” Will wasn’t sure what the answer was. He knew the Super had extensiv
e experience of bombs from his days in Ireland.

  “Good question, Smithy.” Alec swept his fingers through his hair and frowned. Deep lines creased his forehead and chin as he prepared the answer. He didn’t want to lecture his team, but it was important that they realised how good the bomber was. “The problem with fertiliser bombs is they don’t always explode, especially if the mixture is moist. Any moisture at all will stop it exploding. This bomb maker painstakingly cooked the compound to remove all the moisture, and then mixed it. They used three drums. The detonation of one drum would not have triggered the others, hence two detonators were used for each drum. Each drum was an independent device.”

  “So there were two detonators in each bomb, to make sure they all exploded?” Smithy asked.The Super nodded. “Talk about belt and braces,” Smithy was impressed by the bomb maker’s skill.

  “Whoever set this bomb left absolutely nothing to chance. Carry on, Will.”

  “The devices were attached to a mercury motion switch and a photo-cell trigger.” Will Naylor looked up at the confused faces around the room. “If the van had been towed or moved, it would have set off the mercury switch. If the back doors were opened, the photo-cell would have triggered the devices.”

  “The bomb was going to explode, no matter what happened,” Alec added. “Which begs the question as to why would the bomber use a remote detonator, and risk being near the scene, unless he needed to see a target before he detonated it.”

  Eyebrows were raised, whispered thoughts were shared and nods of agreement spread around the room.

  “Smithy.” Alec turned towards the ginger detective.

  “Guv?”

  “Pick five detectives with a knowledge of figures and money trails, and find me a reason why Imran Patel and his wife were blown to pieces.” Alec was convinced that the motive had been money. Organised crime families like the one headed by Malik Shah were worth billions, but a life was cheap. A hit could be ordered for a three-figure sum.