Murder Without Reason (DCI Cook Thriller Series Book 5)

by Phillip Strang

  Murder Without Reason

  ALSO BY PHILLIP STRANG

  MURDER WITHOUT REASON

  THE HABERMAN VIRUS

  MALIKA’S REVENGE

  HOSTAGE OF ISLAM

  PRELUDE TO WAR

  Copyright Page

  Copyright © 2015 Phillip Strang

  Cover Design by Phillip Strang

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed by a newspaper, magazine, or journal.

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  All Rights Reserved.

  This work is registered with the UK Copyright Service.

  Author’s Website: http://www.phillipstrang.com

  And there’s a free book offer if you sign up for my New Releases Mailing List:

  To get your free copy, just join my readers’ group here: http://www.phillipstrang.com/reader-magnet or click on the image.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Dedication

  For Elli and Tais, who both had the perseverance to make me sit down and write.

  Chapter 1

  Isaac Cook was the best policeman that Counter Terrorism Command had secured since its establishment ten years previous. A beat police officer, he had through sheer professionalism and burning the midnight oil risen through the ranks to Detective Chief Inspector in record time. He was slated to rise to the highest echelons of the London Metropolitan Police, possibly a future commissioner, and the transfer to Counter Terrorism Command seemed opportune to his professional ambitions. He was also black, black as the ace of spades as a result of Jamaican parents, who had come over in the sixties and suffered in the impoverished ghettoes of Notting Hill.

  A good education, his parents had worked day and night to pay the fees and, coupled with an academic brilliance, he possessed a determination that could only be described as stellar. Armed with a soft, mellowing English accent with an undertone of Jamaican, he was an impressive individual. Over six feet tall, he could have been a runner, but he chose law and order over sport. It was he who was going to knock on the Wassefs’ front door, and he knew what their reaction was likely to be.

  Investigations had revealed no hint of any disturbing behaviour on the part of the father. In fact, he appeared to be more English than the English. They had also picked up the driver of the car that had delivered Duraid Wassef to the shopping centre car park. The car, subsequently fished out of the River Thames close to Woolwich, thirty-five kilometres to the east of Central London.

  ‘Mr Wassef, my name is Isaac Cook, Detective Chief Inspector Isaac Cook. I’m with the London Metropolitan Police, Counter Terrorism Command.’

  ‘What can I do for you?’ Farid Wassef said. A law-abiding man, he was unused to the presence of a policeman knocking on his door.

  ‘It’s about your son, Duraid,’ DCI Cook said.

  ‘Yes, but he’s not here.’

  ‘It is not him that we wish to talk to. It is you and your wife. May we come in?’

  ‘Please do.’ Farid Wassef could only assume there had been an accident involving his son in the car he had given him.

  The room was English in taste, with photos of the family arranged on the top of a piano in the corner. Isaac instantly recognised a good-looking youth. It was the face of the heavily mutilated head that had been blown clear of the body when the bomb had exploded. The photo he had in his possession and the photo on the piano showed clear similarities, but he had no intention of showing the most recent photo to the parents, especially the mother.

  ‘What can I do for you, Detective Chief Inspector?’ Farid Wassef asked.

  ‘Unfortunately, I must tell you that your son has met with a serious accident.’

  ‘Is he badly hurt? Where is he? What hospital?’ the distraught father asked.

  ‘I am afraid that his wounds were fatal.’ Isaac Cook loved the police service apart from one aspect, that of telling parents that their son or daughter had died as a result of a car accident or a drug overdose. This was more difficult. He had to also tell them that their son was responsible for the deaths of over eighty innocent bystanders.

  ‘No, no! It can’t be true,’ Duraid’s mother screamed.

  ‘How dare you come into my house and tell us such a lie,’ the father shouted.

  ‘It is my responsibility to tell you in person. I have chosen your home as it will help to ease the burden of what I must now tell you.’ DCI Isaac Cook needed to broach how their son had come to die.

  Constable Alana Lewis, on secondment from the local police station, was skilled in counselling to parents receiving news that their child had perished in an accident, intentionally or otherwise. However, this was proving difficult for her to handle and she had to look after Mrs Wassef. Trained in basic medical skills, she was able to administer a mild sedative, while the family doctor made his way to the house.

  ‘What kind of an accident? Was it in his car?’ Farid Wassef asked.

  ‘I must tell you the truth,’ DCI Cook said. ‘I used the word accident in an attempt to calm the situation.’

  ‘Then you have failed,’ Duraid’s father said. ‘Neither of us is calm. If this is a ruse, a trick, then I will sue the police for all the money it has.’

  ‘It is not any of those that you mention, although I can understand your anger. It is best if you let me tell you the truth.’

  ‘Then please hurry or I will have you kicked out of the house by the local police.’ Farid Wassef was close to exploding with anger.

  ‘I am sorry, but I am the police and, in this matter, I have full jurisdiction. Not even the Commissioner of the London Metropolitan Police could place an order for me to leave. Now, please, I must tell you the truth.’ DCI Cook took control of the situation.

  ‘Tell me, and be quick.’ Farid Wassef eyes started to well up with tears.

  ‘You are aware of a bombing in Salisbury today?’

  ‘Yes, I am, but what has this to do with Duraid?’ his father responded.

  ‘You are familiar with an individual by the name of Wali, similar age to your son?’

  ‘Yes, they were going to look at a car for Wali Hasan to buy.’

  ‘Then it is clear that there is no confusion.’ It was proving difficult even for the DCI to state what the son of Farid Wassef had done.

  ‘What confusion?’ the father asked.

  ‘The bombing was the result of a suicide bomb worn by an eighteen-year-old man.’

  ‘Wali? Did he commit this terrible
act?’ Wassef asked.

  ‘No, I am sorry. It was your son, Duraid.’

  ‘I cannot believe you. I will not accept this. You are lying.’

  At that instance, a scream came from the kitchen where Constable Lewis and Sheila Wassef had been temporarily sitting.

  Duraid’s mother rushed in and headed for Isaac Cook. She was ablaze with anger.

  ‘How dare you come in here and accuse my son of such a thing’ she screamed. ‘He is a good boy, always has been. He’s not interested in such issues. What would he be doing in such a place? You are lying to make us angry. This is discrimination, plain and simple.’ It took all of Constable Lewis’ strength to keep Mrs Wassef from scratching the Detective Chief Inspector’s eyes out.

  ‘I’ll need to take you both in to protective custody, as well as your other son,’ DCI Cook said calmly.

  ‘Are we under arrest?’ Farid Wassef asked. A broken man, he had semi-collapsed and was sprawled across the sofa.

  ‘You are not under arrest, but those who put your son up to this, converted him, are violent men. They may well see you as a loose cannon, and whether you know anything, or have spoken to the police, they will ensure that a loose cannon is silenced.

  ‘What do I care? What do we care?’ Farid Wassef said, clutching his wife, who sobbed into his shoulder.

  ‘Your remaining son still has a life. You must live for him. Don’t you understand?’

  ‘Yes, you are right. He said he was going out to the cinemas with a friend.’

  ‘He’s safe with us.’

  ‘But how did you know where he was?’

  ‘We have had your house under surveillance for the last four hours. I only came in when I was sure of my facts.’

  ‘You have destroyed us; you know that?’ the father said. The mother was beyond speech, beyond anger, beyond grief as a result of the powerful sedative that the family doctor, recently arrived, had given her.

  ‘I know, and I feel for you, but I must do my job,’ DCI Cook said. ‘I must prevent any more occurrences.’

  ‘I suppose you are right. But why us?’ Farid Wassef begrudgingly admitted that Detective Chief Inspector Isaac Cook had acted correctly.

  ***

  ‘Praise be to Allah. Duraid Wassef has martyred himself,’ Mullah Hatem, Wassef’s firebrand preacher said on the phone.’

  ‘It went better than I could have imagined. It is due to Allah’s benevolence that so many infidels were congregated in one place,’ Durrani replied.

  ‘And to my convert, he played his part to perfection,’ said Mullah Hatem, pleased with himself.

  ‘Yes, he deserves our praise and all the virgins in paradise that he desires. It is always so much easier when with have an educated disciple willing to commit jihad.’

  ‘But it is not always easy,’ Mullah Hatem said. ‘The educated want to debate and question. The ignorant are easy – but, as you say, unreliable.’

  ‘I am sure that Allah, peace be upon him, will grant you the ability to bring more converts, more educated converts.’

  ‘The police have grabbed Wali Hasan,’ the Mullah said.

  ‘What does he know?’ Durrani asked.

  ‘He knows me.’

  ‘Then you know what needs to be done. Can it be arranged?’

  ‘If we know where he is, then it will not be difficult. We have people everywhere.’

  ‘Are you safe?’ Durrani, the bomb maker, asked.

  ‘Relatively safe,’ Mullah Hatem replied. ‘I am a religious leader, a moderate Muslim, and unless they have solid proof, the police will not act against me.’

  ‘Then we must remove the accomplice as soon as possible.’

  ‘The plan the Master talks about, how are you progressing?’ Mullah Hatem asked.

  ‘I will be ready. How long do we have?’

  ‘We still have time. The final date has not been set. It rests with the Master. It is he alone who will give the time of deliverance. We still need to get all the people in place.’

  ‘Yes, I realise,’ Durrani said, ‘but the Master is anxious for a result. It is the supreme blow against this country of infidels, the moment they realise that we are no longer looking for acceptance or equality. It is superiority that we desire, revenge that we seek for the one true religion and the one true God.’

  ‘Do you have another target ready?’ the Mullah asked.

  ‘Yes. It is the one that we agreed on. The biggest so far, but for this, I will need eight, maybe ten, volunteers and no doubt several hundred virgins.’

  ‘And yet you still maintain your humour. It is good to see,’ the Mullah laughed.

  ‘I am always in good humour after a successful result. Do you have willing martyrs ready for paradise?’

  ‘They will be available. I only require forty-eight hours to arrange,’ the Mullah said.

  ‘Please give them some intelligence. This requires precision planning and timing. The uneducated donkeys will only ruin it. One out of time and the result is substantially reduced,’

  ‘You can rely on me, but I cannot always guarantee the same level of intellect that you had for the last bombing.’

  ‘No donkeys, that’s all I ask.’ However, the bomb maker had a solution if the next batch of martyrs had no more brains than a dumb four-legged beast of burden.

  ***

  Her Majesty’s Prison Belmarsh could not be described as a model prison. It was, however, measurably better than the prisons that Wali Hasan would have found in his father’s home country of Pakistan. There was education, a gym, a library and even television, although its viewing content was regulated. Nothing violent or religious or contentious, but then this was a prison where those convicted of terrorism offences were held. Not that the facilities would be of any concern to Wali Hasan. He was in solitary and, whereas he was fed well and could offer prayer five times a day, he was certainly not going to be given free rein to wander around and to interact with the other prisoners. He had seen some as he arrived. One or two had blown him a kiss, some had even shown him a disgusting sign of the left index finger pushed through a hole formed by the other index finger and a thumb. He knew what it meant. He was glad to be in solitary.

  ‘Wali, you’re in serious trouble here.’ DCI Isaac Cook had been given the opportunity to question the prisoner.

  ‘I want a lawyer,’ replied Wali. His friend, Ahmed, had been caught shoplifting some months earlier, and the lawyer they had brought in had got him off with no more than a rap on the knuckles.

  ‘You’re here under the Counter Terrorism Act of 2008.’

  ‘I want a lawyer,’ Wali Hasan was adamant.

  ‘How many times do I have to explain this to you? You have no rights. I can do whatever I want, and no one will listen or complain, is that clear?’

  ‘I’ve done nothing. You can’t hold me here. I have my rights. I’m a citizen of this country.’

  ‘Does that mean you can go around blowing up people just because they’re out shopping?’

  ‘I haven’t blown up anyone,’ replied Wali, protesting his innocence.

  ‘Your friend Duraid did, and you were with him. Or do you deny that?’

  ‘I thought we were going for a drive, nothing else. How was I to know he was mad, that he was going to blow himself up?’

  ‘Why did you drive his car back to London?’ DCI Cook raised the pressure.

  ‘I was scared. I knew he was up to something when he hugged me in the car and wished me well. I panicked.’

  ‘You’re lying. You drove down there, helped him fit the explosives and hugged him with joy. We’ve got cameras, did you know that?’

  ‘I demand a lawyer.’

  ‘Wali, be sensible,’ the police inspector said, aiming to be seen as the detainee’s friend. ‘You know you’re not getting a lawyer. What do I need to convince you that I’m on your side? I’m trying to help you, and from what I see you’ve been an idiot so far but you haven’t killed anyone. If you cooperate, then maybe five years in here, t
ake advantage of the education and leave with a trade.’

  ‘I don’t want any time in here.’

  ‘And why is that, Wali? Afraid you might lose your soap in the showers?’

  ‘They’re perverts in here. They’ll fuck me with their big dicks.’ Wali had a school friend who had ended up in Brixton prison for robbing a newsagent at gunpoint. When he came out, he had told Wali what happened behind the closed bars when the guards weren’t looking.

  ‘Wouldn’t you like that, a big hairy man up your tight little arse?’ Isaac Cook prided himself that he rarely swore, but it was necessary to scare the frightened British-Pakistani youth. One minute the bomber’s friend, the next, his frightener.

  ‘No, I wouldn’t. I want a lawyer,’ Wali nervously replied.

  ‘No lawyer, no rights, and if I don’t get some answers soon, I’ll get the prison guards to strip you naked and throw you through the metal gate out into the prison courtyard. I’ll even have some soap thrown in.’

  ‘I don’t know anything.’

  ‘Wali, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll give you twelve hours to think it over. I’ll be back here tomorrow morning at eight o’clock sharp, and then we’ll have a cosy little chat. If you play fair with me, I’ll play fair with you, is that okay?’

  ‘Yes, that’s okay.’ Wali gave a sigh of relief that he had some time to come up with a convincing story that the black policeman would swallow.

  ***

  Mohammad Sohail Shafi was not a terrorist, but he was a violent man and fifteen years to serve in Belmarsh with no hope of parole had not tempered his violence or his anger over a false conviction. Buggering some hapless teenager in the showers was a temporary respite, but apart from Soapy, they had been few and far between in the past few months.

  He had not killed the man over some heroin, but he had been convicted of the crime. So why should the police lock him up for doing them a service? The man, Rajko Djuric, was a gypsy, one of the latest waves of immigrants to enter England. His death had even given satisfaction to the police. A thief, a drug addict and a dealer, he was not a person to be missed, and even the police constable at the lockup had shaken Shafi by the hand, even thanked him.