Murder Without Reason (DCI Cook Thriller Series Book 5)

by Phillip Strang

  ‘You admire them?’ Alex asked.

  ‘Why not? I can recognise skilled work when I see it.’

  It was as the group moved slowly forward, balancing and supporting themselves between scaffolding and the original roof and the masonry to either side, that Alex saw something.

  ‘Those cuts in the trusses you’ve installed?’

  ‘What about them?’ Aboud asked.

  ‘Some seem – quite a few, in fact – appear to have been cut and then filled in.’ Alex was uncertain of what she was looking at.

  ‘We had to make a few adjustments,’ said Aboud. ‘These old buildings are not exact in their measurements. We often have to do that.’

  ‘In this modern day and age? With exact methods of measuring and then computerised manufacturing of the wooden trusses?’ She was at least confident of that statement.

  ‘Are you saying we did a bad job?’ Aboud was quick to defend his workmanship.

  ‘Not at all, I’m just asking the question. Doesn’t cutting into a beam weaken its structural integrity?’

  ‘Who are you?’ Aboud raised his voice.

  ‘I’m from the Heritage Council, I told you that.’

  ‘You’re a policewoman! They were here the other day sticking their noses in.’

  ‘No, you’re wrong. I’m from the Heritage Council.’ Alex attempted to defend her cover.

  ‘Anyone with a clue about restoration would have known that the structural integrity is not compromised, not on beams that size.’

  ‘What’s in those cuts?’ Alex asked, indirectly revealing that Aboud’s suspicions were correct.

  ‘What do you think?’ he responded angrily.

  ‘I think they’re explosives, and you intend to detonate them on a Sunday.’

  ‘Not any Sunday. This Sunday, when it’s full of infidels.’

  ‘Then Sergeant Bhardwaj and I must stop you.’

  ‘A couple of women? One a Christian, the other a Hindu? What can you two do?’

  ‘Bhardwaj is my married name. I am Muslim by birth and proud of it, but what you do is neither Muslim nor honourable. You are a disgrace to your religion.’

  ‘It is good that both of you will not see the glorious day of our triumph,’ Aboud replied.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Alex asked.

  ‘I am going to kill you and hide your bodies up here.’

  ‘How do you intend to achieve that?’

  ‘My friends standing behind you will assist.’

  ‘Do you think we came here alone?’ Alex played for time.

  ‘Yes, I think you both are here alone,’ Aboud said.

  ‘I would suggest that you look below. I came up here wired. Our conversation has been relayed to a group of policemen stationed outside.’

  ‘I will blow the roof now.’

  ‘I may not know about roof trusses,’ Alex said, ‘but I sure know about explosives, and there are no remote detonators up here. You needed someone up here on Sunday to set it off.’

  ‘There is a martyr ready,’ Aboud replied.

  ‘You mean some misguided fool with no education that you have convinced will be receiving seventy-two virgins in paradise!’

  ‘You insult my religion and hope to leave,’ shouted Aboud angrily. ‘We will not allow ourselves to be taken voluntarily. We will die fighting for the cause. We will kill you first.’

  The foreman made a lunge forward aiming to strike Alex, who moved briskly. Sergeant Bhardwaj came up from behind and slipped her foot under the man’s leg as he grabbed for a beam. He missed the beam and, with the words ‘Allahu Akbar’ emanating from his mouth, he plummeted to the ground, landing hard and square on the solid granite below. The other two men standing not more than ten metres away were not so resilient in their desire for Paradise and climbed down quickly from the roof. They were apprehended on the ground outside the cathedral and taken away for questioning.

  ‘Congratulations, Alex,’ her boss, Isaac Cook, said on the phone. ‘That’s our first success. Weren’t you frightened up there? The guy was intent on killing you.’

  ‘Why, should I have been? It’s all in a day’s work,’ she said as she rapidly puffed on her third cigarette, hoping to calm her nerves.

  Chapter 18

  Anne Argento always attempted to spend at least one day a week in her constituency office in Wimbledon. It was not often she made it – more like half a day every two or three weeks. But for this day, she intended to last the distance. The electorate with their complaints of noisy neighbours, inflexible planning restrictions, biased immigration decisions and the pension that was meant to be index-linked to the CPI were not on the agenda for the day.

  There was a more important matter, and that was Isaac Cook. Rohan Jones hadn’t set up the meeting, but he had given her all the information needed. It was scheduled for ten in the morning. Anne had dressed for the occasion. Her hair freshly coiffured, her clothes the very best from the very best shops in Chelsea, and her make-up immaculate.

  She may have been the Deputy Prime Minister, the Honourable member for Wimbledon, but she was still a woman and Isaac Cook, a man. He was single as was she, and she was entitled to a personal life and her last lover had spilt the beans about how she was a tigress in bed. She was, but she didn’t want it splattered over the front page of some scurrilous magazine when she was after the Prime Minister’s job.

  There was still a deeply conservative undertone in the country that still believed in the sanctity of marriage and fidelity. She did as well, but the sanctity of marriage had somehow passed her in the drive towards success in a man’s world which, regardless of the legislation and the pundits in the press, was still biased. She had succeeded in the law firm that she had joined. She had succeeded in a safe seat in the House, although it had taken two attempts and she was just a shade short of the main job in the country.

  There had been a couple of marriage proposals over the years, both serious and both worthy of consideration, but neither eventuated. Oliver Hamilton, the second son of a Lord in the north of England, had been a serious contender, but his eldest brother was as strong as an ox and the stately home had long been converted into flats due to a shortage of money. Oliver was a good man, tall, articulate and destined for a judgeship down the Old Bailey, but he was to fall short of the ambition that she wished for him and for her.

  Peter Bentley was a much more promising starter. He was also articulate, as well as rich and handsome. Anne would have married him, forgotten all about ambition and politics and personal advancement, had it not been for the fact that she had returned home early one day with a bad headache. The sight of him riding hard her best friend, the honourable Lady Maidstone, doomed the relationship. He apologised profusely, said it was a momentary weakness and that the lady had arrived unexpectedly wearing only a fur coat.

  There was never more than one romance at a time, although dumping one in the morning and seducing another at night did not cause her moral sensibilities a great deal of concern. There had been a few headlines over the years as to her caprices, her alleged romances, some of which were pure fabrications, but she had learnt to push the criticism to one side, sometimes to even use humour to defuse the situation.

  Isaac Cook looked like a possible contender for a dalliance, although the first meeting was to be all business.

  The constituency office was a small, neatly turned-out affair located on the main street traversing the area. It had been a butcher’s shop some years earlier, but now politics was its function. It was the one time she was highly visible, and she would often walk out into the street, sit down for a coffee at one of the local cafes and chat amiably to all and sundry. It was the one time her guard was down, the one time when she felt content and comfortable.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Isaac Cook, I’m pleased to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you,’ Anne Argento said as he walked into the office, ten o’clock on the dot.

  ‘Deputy Prime Minister, pleased to meet you. I’ve se
en you on the television a few times.’

  ‘A few times?’

  ‘I was just aiming to be polite,’ he said with a laugh. ‘You’re never off the television, although I haven’t been watching it much lately.’

  ‘I’ve seen your record, it’s certainly impressive,’ she said.

  ‘Thanks, but sometimes they give me credit when it should go to others.’

  ‘Isaac, I may call you Isaac?’

  ‘Yes, Isaac it is.’

  ‘And you must call me Anne.’

  ‘I couldn’t do that. Jamaican parents, they always taught me to respect my superiors.’

  ‘Very well, Deputy PM it is, except after hours.’

  ‘That’s fine. After hours, you’ll just be a regular person.’

  ‘I hope I’ll never be regular,’ she laughed. She liked the man sitting in front of her, and it showed. She was acting like a love-struck teen and she could neither stop nor wanted to.

  ‘What can I do for you? ‘I’ve come here without telling anyone. I should have told my boss.’

  ‘I need to know where we stand in reference to the current situation,’ she asked.

  ‘The Prime Minister is acutely aware of the current status.’

  ‘Yes, I know that, but I need to hear it direct.’

  ‘He doesn’t tell you everything, is that the situation?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘We disagree on a lot of matters.’

  ‘On the television, you and he are very friendly – or is that an illusion?’

  ‘You’re a smart man, Isaac. What do you think?’

  ‘I think you’re both politicians pretending to be united.’

  ‘You know I’m aggressive and ambitious?’

  ‘Everybody knows that. Most would agree that you’re also very capable and should be in Number Ten.’ It was clear that the tone of the conversation between the Deputy Prime Minister and the Detective Chief Inspector was one of mutual admiration.

  ‘They’re wise people. That’s where I belong. I need to know what’s going on.’

  ‘You’re asking me to tell you information that should be first revealed to the Prime Minister.’ Isaac realised that his professional responsibilities lay with the Prime Minister, not his deputy, no matter how much he was drawn to her personally.

  ‘Isaac, I’m not asking you to tell me anything now. Our conversations will be confidential, I hope.’

  ‘You will have my confidence.’

  ‘Spoken like a future Commissioner of Police.’

  ‘Don’t believe all that you read in reports.’

  ‘I make my judgements for myself,’ she continued. ‘You’re heading to the top, and you’re as ambitious as I am.’

  ‘You may be right, but I’m not a politician. I can’t pretend to like people when I don’t.’

  ‘You misjudge the Prime Minister and his deputy.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I actually like him very much as a person. He’s done a good job for the country. But he’s wrong on this issue and, if he maintains his intransigence, then we’re in serious trouble.’

  ‘Do you believe that?’ Isaac Cook felt he had to make a decision as to whether to accede to her requests or not.

  ‘I do. I may be an aggressive and ambitious political animal, a bitch even, but I’m still English and proud of it. The England we have now is the England I love and want. I’ll fight for it if I have to.’

  ‘And so will I,’ he replied.

  ‘Then what do I need to do to convince you to take me into your confidence?’

  ‘I’ll give you some updates now, nothing controversial, nothing that could only have come from me.’

  ‘I’ll keep it in confidence. You have my word.’

  ‘Spoken like a true politician.’ Isaac Cook smiled.

  ‘No, spoken like a true friend.’ Anne Argento blushed.

  ***

  There had been a reversal in the fortunes of the Islamic State in England. The thwarted attempt to down the cathedral in York had caused its leadership great concern. The Master wanted answers.

  ‘What has gone wrong?’ he asked of his trusted right-hand man.

  ‘It is unclear. There is no reason to believe there is a traitor in our midst,’ Haji replied.

  ‘Then why? How did they know we were planning an attack on one of their cathedrals?’

  ‘It is a mystery for which we have no answer.’

  ‘Are they able to pre-empt our moves?’ the Master asked.

  ‘It may be possible,’ Haji replied.

  ‘Haji, tell me what you are thinking.’

  ‘When I was in intelligence in East Pakistan, before it became Bangladesh…’ Haji started his explanation. The Master abruptly ended it before he had finished.

  ‘Yes, I know of that,’ he said. ‘But how does this help us here?’

  ‘Master, I request your forbearance, please.’

  ‘Haji, I have not shown you the respect you deserve. I apologise profusely.’

  ‘There is no need for an apology. I am aware of the frustration that we all feel.’

  ‘How could it end like this? It seemed foolproof.’ The Master was perplexed that such a carefully orchestrated plan, requiring many months and many people, could have been discovered.

  ‘What of Barry Cardiff? Where is he now?’ Haji asked.

  ‘He is in one of their prisons.’

  ‘They’ll torture him; you know that?’ Haji said.

  ‘It matters little. He only knew his part in the plan. There is no way he can be connected back to us.’

  ‘Then let us not consider him further,’ Haji said. Bashir Cardiff was a small cog in the wheel. His usefulness at an end, his interest to the Islamic State negated.

  ‘Haji, what were you saying before about Bangladesh?’ asked the Master.

  ‘In intelligence gathering, there are many components,’ Haji resumed his explanation. ‘There’s the information collected or bought.’

  ‘That I understand.’ The Master was inpatient.

  ‘And there’s the information deduced,’ Haji continued.

  ‘What do you mean? I don’t understand what you are saying.’

  ‘We, as do any group of individuals, have certain behaviour patterns,’ explained Haji. ‘I’ll get up and walk around the room every ten minutes due to a gammy leg. You will look out the window absent-mindedly every five minutes or so. Others will whistle or hum, even fart, but we all have distinctive characteristics that are unique to us.’

  ‘I’m not following you.’ The Master was confused.

  ‘When Durrani makes a suicide vest it has his signature on it.’

  ‘Signature? He certainly doesn’t write on it.’

  ‘No, I mean the way he constructs it. How the wiring is run, how the explosives are packed.’

  ‘Yes, but he does that for efficiency and quality,’ the Master said.

  ‘I’m not criticising. What I’m saying is that someone else could, after the bomb has been exploded, tell whether it was the same maker as the one before.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that,’ the Master acknowledged.

  ‘They could also hazard a guess as to improvements he may make.’

  ‘That’s possible, but what’s that got to do with what we were discussing?’

  ‘It has everything to do with the original discussion,’ said Haji. ‘We have formulated a plan of escalating activity, more strategic targets, ultimately culminating in our final act.’

  ‘But how can anyone know our plan? It is carefully guarded.’

  ‘They don’t, but they know our signature, how we operate.’

  ‘Are you saying they can predict our plan?’ the Master asked.

  ‘Not accurately, but if they’re smart enough they can make an educated guess.’

  ‘This is what they did in York?’ the Master asked.

  ‘It’s a strong possibility. It’s what we did in East Pakistan.’

  ‘It was successful?’

  ‘
Not always, but we managed to stop some attacks from India.’

  ‘Are you suggesting we change our plan?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Haji. ‘They may well pre-empt us on that as well. We keep to the plan, but we remain aware that others may be watching and not passively.’

  ***

  Parliament had been recalled early following the successful prevention of the terrorist bombing at York Minster. Clifford Bell was delighted. Anne Argento was not so sure.

  ‘Prime Minster, the Opposition feels it is in order to congratulate those who prevented the attack in York.’ The Honourable Leader of the Opposition, Ernest Bakewell, in a moment of magnanimity, agreed with the Government.

  ‘It is clear proof that the measures in place are starting to have an effect. It has been three weeks since the last attack on the general public.’ The Prime Minister was quick to seize a momentary statement of goodwill from Bakewell, even if it had been spoken through clenched teeth.

  ‘Our congratulations are for those who prevented the attacks. It is not for the Prime Minister unless he was personally involved.’ Opposition Leader Bakewell could not resist the opportunity to obliquely criticise the Prime Minister.

  ‘I am aware of who was involved. I was regularly updated as the action unfolded.’ The Prime Minister had told a lie. He hoped that he’d get away with it.

  ‘Can the Prime Minster please explain how he was kept involved when, from our understanding, it all occurred in the roof of the cathedral?’ Ernest Bakewell had started with a compliment, but the Prime Minister had left himself open to ridicule and criticism. The Opposition Leader could not resist the opportunity.

  ‘This is not a time for politicking, scoring points in the electorate,’ the Prime Minister replied.

  ‘You’re willing to claim credit,’ Bakewell continued. ‘Yet, to my knowledge, you were in London, and the action was in York. Unless you somehow have a magic carpet, you couldn’t have been in both places at the same time.’

  ‘The Leader of the Opposition uses a moment of national rejoicing to engage in mud-slinging.’ Prime Minister Clifford Bell attempted to maintain control.