Murder Without Reason (DCI Cook Thriller Series Book 5)

by Phillip Strang

  ‘We’re still struggling with what they’ll do next.’

  ‘I told you, they’ll keep the authorities bogged down with shopping centres and the like while aiming higher. They want to demoralise the people. Make them see that an Islamic State is better than the incompetent politicians this country currently has.’

  ‘Shafi, are they all incompetent? Is that how you see it?’ Andrew had not expected to receive a serious answer.

  ‘I watched the news in the hospital,’ said Shafi. ‘They’re careful not to let us see it in here, at least an unedited version.’

  ‘You didn’t answer the question.’

  ‘Give me time. There’s a woman, good-looking sort, she makes a lot of sense. Keeps saying it’s war and the sooner the people realise the truth, the sooner it can be won.’

  ‘Anne Argento, is that the name?’ Frederick asked.

  ‘Yes. You couldn’t fix me up with her, by any chance?’

  ‘I think the government has spent enough on your carnal lusts,’ Frederick said.

  ‘Fancy words again, but I assume it means getting a leg over?’

  ‘Anne Argento would eat you alive,’ Andrew said.

  ‘She sounds great.’

  ‘She scares all the men around her.’

  ‘I like her already. Do you think she’d come and visit me?’

  ‘She is aiming for the Prime Minister’s job. Meeting up with you may not be the best move on her part.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right. Well-known criminal associating with Prime Ministerial hopeful.’ Shafi at times showed a degree of intelligence.

  ‘It’s a good headline, but the well-known criminal?’ Andrew joked.

  ‘Okay, unknown hoodlum and villain. Doesn’t sound so good, does it?’

  ‘Can we get back to the main issue?’ said Frederick. ‘Shafi, do you have any ideas as to where and when the next attack will be?’

  ‘Locked up in here, what do you think?’ Shafi replied.

  ‘Could you do more if you were outside?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘I probably could, but how do you get me out without raising suspicions?’

  ‘It looks as though you’ll be freed on a technicality, inadmissible evidence,’ said Andrew. ‘We may even be able to get you in with Cook and Pickles’ team.’

  ‘It sounds a tough call to me,’ said Shafi, ‘but you’re the smart guys and Cook and Pickles have the power.’

  ‘Would you go undercover?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘Yes, why not. Being on the side of law and order will be good for once. Tell them, if I do this, no more manslaughter convictions, no more prison. I walk out of Belmarsh. I stay out.’

  ‘It could be dangerous. You could be killed.’

  ‘I can handle myself,’ Shafi boasted. ‘I’ll take my chances. Anything’s better than this dump. May even visit those two nurses you fixed me up with me.’

  ‘You’ll not find them on duty at the hospital.’

  ‘Just give me their address, I’ll find them. I’ll need some money as well.’

  ‘Mohammad Sohail Shafi, government employee, a member of the police. It doesn’t bear thinking about,’ Andrew joked.

  ‘It sounds great to me,’ said Shafi. ‘Have a talk to Cook and Pickles.’

  Shafi returned to his cell confident in his release. To him, to be out of Belmarsh with all criminal charges against him squashed was worth the risk.

  ***

  Anybody who encountered Ray Styles in the days after the phone call from India would have barely noticed a difference from his previous behaviour. They would have said he was subdued, even sad, but he did his job professionally, even blasted out a workman who had dropped a spanner down behind the instrument panel in the communications room.

  They would not have noticed the small parcels, small enough to fit into a jacket pocket, which he brought in on a regular basis. The instructions had been clear. Place each one at two-metre intervals down either side of the boat’s internals. No need to be too careful as to where, as long as they were concealed, unlikely to be discovered and were not placed behind any heavy panels.

  He worked quietly and calmly in the hope that his wife would be released in time for him to let his superior officer know. He realised that his career was finished and that he was bringing disgrace to his family, but he had only one thought, his wife. There had been another two videos in the inbox on his email. Each showed that the conditions she was being held in were getting worse. On the last video, there had been rats and lice, and those holding her hostage had shorn her hair and covered her face with excrement. He realised the futility of the situation. Nobody else could save her. If it was to sacrifice his life and that of the crew, then it was a cost that had to be borne.

  Two weeks later, his parents, Len, and Mavis, came to watch the submarine as it sailed down Gare Loch and out into the Irish Sea, with the full complement of crew lined on the deck in their dress uniforms. It was only for two weeks, and his parents had been disappointed that Sara could not make it back in time.

  The trip down the Loch was impressive. There had been a brass band to wish them bon voyage after an extensive fitting out with a new breed of nuclear weapons, always officially denied, and a new communications system that would allow enhanced video, even while submerged at a depth of fifty metres. It was to be another two months and then there was a planned four-month trip submerged to Brazil.

  Sara had said she’d be waiting on the dockside when he sailed in. In fact, that she would be at every dock he travelled to, but that was not likely to last for too long. They were both keen on a family, and the apartment had been chosen because the second bedroom was large enough for a cot and close enough to the main bedroom in case they had to get up in the middle of the night for a feeding. Life had been good, but for Ray Styles, it was over.

  ***

  ‘Soapy, your arse is as beautiful as you are.’

  Shafi knew it was wrong, but he was a man of few morals and a cold prison cell with no relief was an impossible situation. He was aware that, without Soapy, he would not have survived. The smart guys had said the ancient Greeks were at it all the time, and if it was good enough for them, it was good enough for him. Not that he knew any ancient Greeks, or even modern Greeks – apart from Costa, who ran the local fish and chip shop, and he had a wife and five kids.

  ‘Shafi, the guy at the end of your phone. Are you ever curious?’ Soapy asked.

  ‘Why should I be curious?’

  ‘I don’t know. It just seems strange that you talk every day or so to somebody, and you don’t know who it is.’

  ‘I can’t see why. We’ve got a business relationship. If he wants to stay unknown, that’s up to him.’

  ‘It seems odd that he’s so anxious to keep his name to himself.’ Soapy was following up on instructions from the person in the ambulance van.

  ‘I don’t see why,’ repeated Shafi. ‘If he were caught aiding and abetting the smuggling into this dump, he’d soon find himself in here with us.’ He was unsure as to how to respond.

  ‘I suppose you’re right, but it’s still strange.’

  ‘It may be, but I’m not much bothered.’

  ‘The Prof said you were interested the other day?’ Soapy continued to probe.

  ‘The Prof talks too much. I was just making conversation. It’s no point talking about anything intelligent when he makes us all look like idiots.’

  ‘He never comes near me.’

  ‘Soapy, you're remarkably nosy today,’ Shafi said. ‘He has a wife, that’s what I heard. Some other girl did a runner, upset him badly. He’s off girls at the present moment, and he’s not yet found the delights of your rear end.’

  ‘You say the nicest things,’ Soapy said in a mincing, effeminate manner.

  ‘I only tell the truth, you know that.’ Shafi did want to know who the Master was, but he wasn’t about to tell anyone, especially Soapy, who was proving not to be the most discreet.

  Soapy’s mention of the
Prof’s conversation concerned Shafi. He decided that he would need to resolve the issue. He found him in the far corner of the exercise yard. ‘Hey Prof, you’ve been talking to Soapy.’

  ‘I talk to him sometimes, what’s the problem?’

  ‘You mentioned that I was asking about the voice on the phone.’

  ‘I apologise, a slip of the tongue. I’ll be more careful in future.’

  ‘You make sure of that. I don’t want my name taken in vain, just because an intelligent guy like yourself and a queer fancy a little chat.’

  ‘It was unintentional; I’ve told you that. I don’t think there’s anything more to say, do you?’

  ‘No, I suppose you’re right,’ Shafi said. ‘I just don’t like my afternoon’s entertainment being disturbed by some gossiping. It puts me right off.’

  ‘Right off your buggering of Soapy?’

  ‘If you mean my screwing of him, then yes, it does. You’ve got your books and an iPad in your cell, maybe some porn on it. I’ve got Soapy. Let’s see who survives the next few years in here.’

  ‘I’m not staying that long,’ the Prof said.

  ‘Prof, what do you mean?’

  ‘I’ve got friends; they’ll see me right.’

  ‘If you’re waiting for a rope ladder it’ll need to be long,’ Shafi joked. ‘The walls are high.’

  ‘Not me,’ the Prof said. ‘I’m going to walk out the main gate with my head held high. Then I’m going to grab that bitch ex-girlfriend of mine, cover her up from head to toe and fuck her whenever I’m in the mood.’

  ‘What about the new boyfriend? Won’t he complain?’ Shafi asked.

  ‘He’ll be dead before then.’

  ‘You’ve got it all planned. Someone’s looking out for you.’

  ‘They are,’ said the Prof, ‘and when that time comes, I’ll be somebody, not a nobody stuck in here with, as you say, an iPad and some porn.’

  Chapter 1 3

  ‘It’s not that simple. The judge will only grant bail in exceptional circumstances,’ Detective Inspector Ed Pickles said.

  ‘These are exceptional circumstances and you and Isaac have already told me you were going to get him out. We need him undercover. Our analysis is limited without some numbers, some plans. Shafi may be able to help.’ Andrew Martin was frustrated by Ed Pickles’ unexpected response.

  ‘He’s entitled to an appeal,’ said Frederick, who had researched the subject on the Internet.

  ‘Don’t get us wrong,’ Ed felt the need to explain, ‘We want him out as well, but if it’s too easy, then the bad guys will realise there’s something fishy.’

  ‘They’ll know something’s up,’ DCI Isaac Cook added.

  ‘Are they on to Shafi?’ Andrew Martin asked.

  ‘Not that we have any firm detail,’ replied Isaac, ‘but Shafi’s receiving fewer phone calls than he used to. They’re trying to set up another inmate, Zohaib, in competition. It may be nothing, but we need to be careful.’

  ‘Can’t you guys fix the police evidence?’ Andrew asked. ‘Say it was incorrect, the police officers were both drunk.’

  ‘We’ve got the authority, but the police officers will be thrown out of the force.

  ‘Have you heard Anne Argento? She’d have you strung up for such a lily-livered comment,’ Frederick interjected.

  ‘Frederick, that’s the most vocal you’ve ever been,’ Isaac said. ‘You’re right, that’s what we’re being. We can always transfer them to the Outer Hebrides pending a disciplinary hearing, and then bring them back after we’ve dealt with the situation.’

  ‘That sounds more like it,’ Ed agreed.

  ***

  Judge Judith Hopwood was not easy on the eye. Steel rimmed glasses, a short, almost masculine, haircut and a frumpish tweed jacket under her judge’s robes, with a voluminous bosom that hung over her bench, was positioned high at the front of the courtroom. The Appeals Court, a foreboding and austere building in the Strand, had the look of a cathedral from the outside with its arched entrance and towers.

  ‘She’s a rum’un,’ Shafi said, resplendent in a suit and tie. He’d even trimmed his beard for the occasion. ‘It’s a good job they don’t have the death penalty. Otherwise I would have been hanging from a rope two years back.’

  ‘Please be quiet, we’re trying to get you free. Your comments, as humorous as they may be, are not helping the situation.’ Owen Smallfellow was Ed Pickles’ kind of barrister. Old school, knew all the villains intimately, the judges’ peccadillos, their weaknesses, their strengths, and he had ascertained many years previously that her ladyship had no weaknesses. She was pure bile, and everyone was guilty until proven otherwise.

  ‘Mr Smallfellow,’ the judge looked directly at Shafi’s man for the day, courtesy of legal aid, although Counter Terrorism Command were paying Smallfellow, unbeknown to the judge, an appreciable sum to ensure the desired result. ‘You are expecting me to grant bail pending an appeal?’

  ‘That’s correct, my Lady.’

  ‘I’ve seen Mr Shafi’s history. It is not an exemplary record.’ The judge peered over her glasses. ‘Why is it that you think you can come here and expect me to release a known criminal with a dubious background onto the law-abiding public?’

  ‘My Lady,’ said Smallfellow, a small man, slim with a face that could only be described as babyish, which was not ideal for a man in his fifties. He had seen more trials than the honourable judge had had hot dinners. ‘Mr Shafi is a reformed person, a model prisoner, and deserves another chance. He has only been in prison once and, as will be shown to the court, he was sentenced with inconclusive evidence in that the two police officers were clearly drunk.’

  ‘Drunk? Can this be proven?’ The judge was not pleased. She wanted Shafi back inside. There were enough people causing trouble on the streets, and this one looked as if he could have belonged to the group responsible for all the bombings, even if he had combed his hair and had a good wash. She didn’t like the smell of him, either, but Shafi thought a liberal dousing of Soapy’s perfume would go down a treat.

  ‘The two police officers in question have been transferred to a location in Scotland pending a full investigation,’ Smallfellow said.

  ‘Why weren’t they suspended on full pay pending an internal investigation?’ she asked.

  ‘My Lady, I cannot answer for the inner workings of the London Metropolitan Police. I will, however, be showing sworn affidavits by both officers acknowledging that they had been drinking.’

  ‘What about all his other indiscretions?’

  ‘They are pure conjecture,’ Smallfellow said, ‘put before the court when he was charged with murder. He has not been before this court, or any other court prior.’

  ‘It seems a slim case that you put forward,’ said the judge. ‘A model citizen, wrongfully accused by two drunken police officers, and a drug dealer with a knife in his chest. Is that all there is?’

  ‘My Lady, legally Mr Shafi is eligible for bail. Unless there is some legal reason for his being held in custody, then you are obliged by law to release him immediately.’

  ‘I am well aware of my responsibilities. It is apparent that the law has failed to protect the people of this country, but I am bound to release Mr Shafi immediately and to place a requirement that he reports to a police station on every Thursday of the week.’

  ‘Thank you, Your Honour.’

  Fifteen minutes later, in the sanctity of the judge’s private room. ‘Now you tell me, Detective Chief Inspector Cook, who did I just get out of prison for you? Jack the Ripper, Attila the Hun, or Jesus Christ?’

  ‘You may well have got all three out,’ replied the DCI. ‘But what you need to know is that he may be the person who saves this country from the ravages of the Islamic State.’

  ‘So, he’s a good guy?’ Judge Judith Hopwood said.

  ‘Good, no way,’ Isaac Cook admitted. ‘He’s as bad as they get, but we need him, as does this country.’

  ***

 
Night watch on HMS Ambush was a lonely affair, although the concept of night and day was regulated by the time and the lighting within the submarine. Sub Lieutenant Styles was up and active. It had been three days since they had left their moorings, and he had not slept. Three days since he had seen his parents wave to him from the side of the loch, four days since he had heard from Sara.

  ‘What’s our current depth?’ Sub Lieutenant Styles asked.

  ‘Depth, two hundred and twenty metres, Sir.’

  ‘Current time?’

  ‘Twenty hours, Sir.’

  Ray Styles had known the time before he had asked. It was the time that would hopefully ensure the release of Sara. He also knew it was the time of his death and the crew aboard the Ambush.

  Durrani had excelled himself. Each of the one-kilo parcels, each with their digital timers, exploded in unison. Of the one hundred and fifty-six packed on the boat, one hundred and thirty-one had performed flawlessly. The devastation was immediate, the deaths instantaneous.

  The submarine gave no distress call, no indication and no visible debris on the surface. It was a sealed tube designed to withstand the pressure of the sea at a depth far in excess of its depth at the time of the explosion. It would be another ten hours before the Royal Navy would send out a search party. It would be three months at least before a commission of enquiry based on the flimsiest of information decreed that all hands had been lost as a result of terrorist activity.

  It did not need three months before the general public became aware of the loss of the submarine. The Islamic State had proudly announced their success within five hours of the timers on the explosives.

  Ray Styles’ name shone brightly on the commemorative brass plate that was, in time, erected at the naval base in Clyde, along with the other ninety-seven sailors who perished.

  ‘I loved him, you know,’ Sara Styles said.

  ‘I know, my child, but your love of Allah is greater,’ her father, Faisal Aslam, said.

  ***