The Hurting

by RJ Mitchell

  He closed the few steps between them with a languid movement. He grabbed her jaw with his hand forcing her to her feet.

  “Those painted lips are faded and dirty. All your beauty is nothing now, Jezebel. What does your life mean now that it has turned to shit?”

  Tariq’s face hovered an inch away from hers and Vanessa felt sure he was about to kiss her.

  His eyes burned into hers and he rolled his tongue out of his mouth and along his top lip.

  “Tell me bitch, should I despoil you in the name of Allah?”

  Vanessa began to sob uncontrollably. For once no words came to her, such was her sense of hopelessness.

  Tariq uttered one word. “Quiet.” His lips clamped on hers, cruel and hard. Their dryness and the harshness of the kiss were repellent.

  Then, to her surprise Tariq recoiled and spat on the ground at her feet.

  “No, painted harlot, I have other delights in store for you. But first I have more important matters to attend to. For now I will leave you in the company of my men. Maybe they will take pleasure from you. But know this, Miss Velvet. I will return and when I do you must prepare to meet your fate.”

  With that Tariq laughed and left the room. Even after he shut the cell door she could hear his cackles of vicious delight slowly receding down the corridor.

  37

  THE DIRECTOR of MI5 shook his head as the video of the Leader of Glasgow City Council losing his head came to an end. But the voice that punctured the silence in the conference room on floor five of Force Headquarters came from the other end of the table and from a far less illustrious mouth.

  “Jesus H Christ!” cried Detective Constable Kenny Hardie. “Please tell me you have managed to get a trace on this?”

  Sir Willie Stratford smiled uncomfortably at the assembled meeting and then broke the awful truth. “Sadly we have not been able to decipher the backscatter. It is impossible to tell when these things are posted on Al Jazeera web sites like that. But it seems our ruse did not work.”

  Detective Superintendent Tomachek, robbed of the comfort of his pipe due to the relocation to Force HQ, could not contain his anger any longer. “With all due respect Sir William, Chief Constable and the rest of you gentlemen, if you haven’t managed to get anything from the army of listeners you have deployed and all your technology then what is the point? You are aware that this video will have brought public faith in both the police and the intelligence services to an all time low. This is the last thing we needed so soon after the London bombings.”

  “Quite,” replied Stratford but before he could respond fully Tomachek was on him like a butcher’s dog after a stray sausage.

  “This bloody well isn’t good enough. The leader of Glasgow City Council is not just some nobody. He is … was … one of the most public figures in the city if not the country and he has just been executed on a video that will be all over the web by the time this meeting is at an end.”

  Tomachek was only warming up. “If Vanessa Velvet’s pretty little head rolls too she’ll end up canonised while our careers will be over.”

  Stratford snapped under the relentless pilloring of the second generation Pole. “Now listen to me Detective Superintendent Tomachek, I am aware of that. Everything possible is being done to locate Tariq’s lair and Miss Velvet. Etherington will explain exactly what is being done to facilitate that.”

  But before his second-in-command could speak Stratford was challenged again, this time by Thoroughgood.

  “Sir William, do we have any further information on the whereabouts of Meechan or Rahman? If they have a dirty bomb then they must now be our top priority.”

  Etherington tried to deflect the line of verbal fire from his boss. “Everything within our power is being done to trace Meechan on the continent and all UK Ports have been circulated with his description. Rahman’s addresses are all under surveillance but he is nowhere to be found. I am being kept updated on both searches. I must stress that we still do not have confirmation that they have met, or that the device you refer to has changed hands.”

  But Thoroughgood had not finished with the beleaguered head of MI5. “What about the jihadists we killed at the Mosque? You must have gleaned some intelligence from their bodies? Surely the male with the white eye who spent the last fortnight pursuing me and Saladin’s dagger is known to you.”

  Etherington provided the answer. “He is the only one known to us, or rather, our friends in the CIA. His name is Naif and he is known as the Lion of Waziristan. He is a veteran of Afghanistan who was once a bodyguard of bin Laden. He’s famous within al-Qaeda for having defeated and killed three members of the SAS in a firefight. He has been used to whip up radicalism within mosques in the West. He was on our American counterparts most wanted list. So Detective Hardie deserves great credit for terminating him.”

  “Indeed he does, excellent work Hardie,” said ACC Crime, Graeme Cousins.

  Etherington moved on, “As for Naif’s counterparts we are having their visuals circulated to friendly intelligence centres across the globe. But that is the problem with Jihadists, for the most part they are law abiding people who have never come to the attention of authorities anywhere in their lives.

  “What I will say is that not one of them was recorded on our surveillance equipment outside the Mosque. So we are talking about recruits from abroad, probably Pakistan.

  “So, right now we don’t know what capabilities the Spear of Islam still have at their disposal. Tariq seems to be acutely aware that he can afford no communication via cellphone or email. He has pre-empted our every move and has gone to ground, God knows where.”

  Etherington took a deep breath and continued his tail of woe. “One thing we are now sure of is that Professor Farouk did not commit suicide but was murdered. He was strangled prior to being strung up in a rather crude attempt to mimic suicide by hanging.”

  Hardie interjected, “Poor sod.”

  Thoroughgood challenged the intelligence officer, “Tragic but perhaps not surprising, given that Rahman failed to turn up for his meeting with Farouk at the Mosque. What of the bookshop owner and the staff at One Devonshire Gardens? Surely you must have turned up something from them?”

  A new voice, possessing total authority, spoke into the ensuing silence; that of George Salmond, Chief Constable of Strathclyde Police, known less than respectfully as ‘slippery’ to the rank and file. He was not a happy man.

  “Indeed, Sir William, I echo Detective Sergeant Thoroughgood’s concern over your organisation’s continual inability to track and locate these terrorists. As far as I can see these amateur fanatics are leading you on a merry dance as the bodies pile up.”

  Sir William tried to interject but Salmond raised his hand and carried on. “In my building I abdicate the floor when I have finished, Sir William. You will do well to remember that I want to say one thing. If you do not provide the intelligence and the means to end this carnage within 48 hours I will be on my private line to the Prime Minister and I can assure you we will not be talking about our former schooldays at Fettes College.”

  Stratford’s skin mottled and he fidgeted with his Harlequins RFC tie but he was rescued by Etherington.

  “With respect, Chief Constable,” the chief intelligence officer said, “we have made significant progress. Firstly, we turned our attention to the staff at One Devonshire Gardens. The porter and the duty manager who we had brought in for questioning are no more than impressionable fools. They were basically asked to supply the names of the great and the good to Tariq so that any sensitive trysts could be used for financial blackmail. Beyond that they know nothing and certainly had no idea what the information they provided was going to be used for.”

  “Sham-bloody-bolic,” muttered Hardie under his breath.

  Etherington forged on. “The bookshop owner is different. He’s in custody at Govan Police Station being interviewed by one of our expert interrogators.”

  There was an abrupt metallic scrape as the chief con
stable slammed his chair back and drew himself up to his full 6ft 4inches. He cast an incinerating gaze on the shaken and clearly stirred members of Her Majesty’s Intelligence Service.

  “I don’t care who you are Stratford! This is my city and you will get this mess sorted out by whatever means, or you are finished. Believe me.”

  With that Salmond and his entourage left the room.

  Thoroughgood and Hardie followed but as they left Etherington called,

  “A word if I may, Detective Sergeant Thoroughgood?”

  Thoroughgood and Hardie turned in unison. The DS responded, pointing at an adjoining empty room, “In there? Looks ideal for the privacy I imagine you’ll want this conversation to take place in.”

  “Indeed,” said Etherington and walked into the room behind the DS.

  As the door shut Hardie said, as sarcastically as he could, “Fire away Ethers.”

  Etherington winced but carried on. “Look gentlemen, I know how bad this whole thing looks and it will undoubtedly be the end of Stratford, but we can still get our men. More importantly we can, and will, prevent further carnage. The means to that is through Omar.”

  He was met with silence but was not deflected. “It is my belief that Omar knows all about Rahman, Tariq and of course Meechan. Certainly that is the impression our interrogator is getting. I have no doubt that he is aware where the mad Imam is located but if we want that intel we can’t afford to play by the Marquis of Queensberry’s rules.”

  Aware that he had their attention now, Etherington continued, “My proposal is that we take matters into our own hands and keep those further up out of it. You will be aware that sometimes in the world we operate in, unsavoury methods are employed when needs must. Regrettably within our timescale we have to take what measures we can to prevent merry hell erupting.”

  “About fuckin’ time,” rapped Hardie.

  “Gentlemen, I would like you to join me at the former Partick Police Station to view at first hand a unique form of interrogation which you will know as waterboarding. The time for niceties has long gone detectives. Are you with me?”

  Thoroughgood and Hardie exchanged a glance before the DS said, “All the way. Whatever it takes.”

  Etherington smiled thinly. “Excellent. Your destination, as I said, is the old Partick Police Office where friend Omar has been relocated. I believe the building is also known as the Marine? As the form of interrogation we are planning is somewhat indelicate, the fewer who know about it the better. Right now, however, the ends justifies the means – and it’s a damned pity that my superior could not see it that way. It is now 3.32pm. I suggest a 4pm rendezvous at the location mentioned?”

  “No problem,” agreed Thoroughgood.

  Hardie was the voice of doom. “I just hope we aren’t too late.”

  38

  AS THEY parked the Mondeo at the rear of the famous old police station, originally built in 1853, the memories swept back over both Thoroughgood and Hardie.

  “Aye, bricks and bars; the old place hasn’t changed much since it closed for business,” said Hardie, looking at the intimidating back wall of the station which looked exactly as it had done upon its opening.

  “I remember coming back in off the street right at the start of my service in a pea-souper and expecting Dracula to jump me. On a dark pissin’ night this place used to scare the shit out of a good few. God knows what delights we have waiting for us now M15 have commandeered it for this bit of business.”

  “A case of ‘for what we are about to receive . . .’ if ever there was one,” added Hardie.

  Making their way round to the arched doorway in Gullan Street the two detectives could not quite believe that they were heading into the building that had played host to so much of their past. Each half-expected the solid wooden doors would be barred as they had been since the Marine closed for police business in 1993.

  But after Hardie had banged the door with the traditional polis seven rap knock, Etherington’s face appeared from behind it and they were beckoned in.

  “Welcome to our new home from home. A step back into the past but one that will facilitate the giant step forward we need to avoid more disaster.”

  They passed two suits in the foyer as they followed in Etherington’s wake. Both detectives heard voices that indicated these were not the only spooks currently stationed in the Marine. They walked through black iron gates and up a set of concrete steps into a corridor caged in iron mesh.

  Halfway along the corridor Etherington stopped at a black steel door and inserted a key into its ancient lock. Thoroughgood was convinced the scene could have come from a Bram Stoker novel.

  Before Etherington turned the key he spoke. “Gentlemen, this is the last chance to turn back if you are squeamish or concerned that anything you may witness is unacceptable. Anything you witness can, and will, be denied. What we are dealing with now means human rights are no longer a prime consideration.”

  Thoroughgood provided confirmation the detectives were on side, “Let’s go in.”

  Etherington opened the door.

  Immediately opposite them, caged within the observation cell was a dark figure, full-bearded and spitting venom.

  “Meet Omar al-Rahim al-Abidin, gentlemen,” said Etherington.

  His hands clinging to the bars of the observation cell al-Abidin glowered at them with pulsing hatred. “You think that you can get away with this, pigs? All your pathetic efforts will count for nothing, for you are too late,” he said and spat through the metallic mesh that filled the spaces between the bars.

  The spittle landed just short of Etherington’s brogues. He looked down at his shoes and tutted his displeasure, “Dear me, Omar, that was a bit close. Your punishment awaits.”

  “Follow me detectives,” he said.

  They exited the observation room and followed Etherington along the damp and chilly corridor until Etherington turned into cell number 10. Occupying the centre of the floor was a two plank wooden bench supported by trestle legs at either end. At a signal from Etherington the two suits who had obviously prepared the bench left the cell.

  “A couple of moments, gentlemen, I have a feeling that Omar will not come willingly,” admitted Etherington.

  After a moment the detectives heard sounds of a commotion, reminiscent of the years when the cells within the Marine had been fully functional.

  “Get your hands off me scum! I am an innocent man!” They heard Omar shout, then there was silence.

  Moments later the two suits half-dragged the semi-inert body of the bookshop owner into the room, bound and hooded. He was slammed down on the bench and secured by straps across his ankles, shins, waist and chest. His hands were already strapped to his side.

  An interrogation light hovered around 12 inches above him.

  Having secured Omar to Etherington’s satisfaction, the suits stood on either side of the book shop proprietor, one holding a plastic canister filled with what appeared to be water.

  There was no doubt whose show this was and Etherington gestured to Thoroughgood and Hardie to move to the side of the cell, beyond the prone figure.

  “It’s time we got to work. Excuse me.”

  Neither Thoroughgood nor Hardie knew what to say. But in their minds they questioned why they had been singled out for the viewing of such a command performance.

  Etherington addressed Omar. “You are about to experience something that is very uncomfortable. In fact I am reliably informed it is quite shocking. A practise first used by the Japanese Army and perfected by our American cousins in the CIA. May I say that this goes very much against the grain, but I’m afraid your chums in the Spear of Islam have left us with no choice. Can you hear me Omar al-Rahim al-Abidin?”

  Despite the hood covering his mouth an indistinct voice could be heard cursing, “Go to hell infidel pig!”

  “That’s the spirit!” said Etherington before continuing, “I am now going to place a piece of wood in each of your hands. When this process ge
ts too much and you feel like a chat – drop them. If not, your agony will continue, I promise you, until I get the information I need. Have you heard of the interrogation process known as waterboarding? It is proving very popular with your brothers at Guantanamo Bay.”

  “Fuck you, scum,” was the muffled reply.

  “Excellent, I can see you are still in fine fettle,” said Etherington as agreeably as if he had asked Omar if he was ready to take his place at the crease for the local village cricket team. “Now, my dear man, I will give you one last chance. Are you ready to furnish us with all that you know about the Imam Tariq, Dhinir Rahman and Declan Meechan; including their whereabouts and plans for future atrocities?”

  “Your mother sucks cocks in hell, you crusader devil!” spat Omar.

  “She most certainly does not. A bit naughty that one, Omar,” Etherington cracked a back-handed slap across the hooded face.

  He continued, “Now, listen to me, Omar. We know all about your CDs and their coded messages of Jihad. We know about the meetings addressed by Tariq but I think you have more to tell us and now you will. Gladly, believe me . . .”

  With that Etherington grabbed the canister, took the top off and began to pour water liberally onto the hood, alternating between the areas covering Omar’s mouth and nose.

  As he did so Etherington counted slowly, “One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five. . .” By the time he had counted to twelve the bookshop owner had dropped both pieces of wood but Etherington continued to pour. As Etherington’s count reached fourteen Omar’s linen trousers turned dark as he pissed himself and he screamed, “No more! No more, I tell you!” At last Etherington stopped.

  “How dammed decent of you,” said the intelligence officer and stooped over Omar before ripping the covering off his head.

  Clearly in a state of distress, Omar coughed and spluttered as he spat water out of his mouth.

  Etherington gestured at the suits. They moved over to Omar and started to unstrap him leaving only his ankles and hands still bound.