Murder Without Reason (DCI Cook Thriller Series Book 5)

by Phillip Strang

  Rodney’s Trucks had a nice little line in insurance frauds, although the law was closing in. It was not fortunate, at least for Rodney Marshall, that one of the insurance underwriters had decided to check out the trucking company’s operations two hundred kilometres to the west of London.

  ‘Farhan, the van driver has delivered one of the packages to the wrong address,’ said Ed Pickles. ‘Check it out, see what’s inside. But, whatever you do, ensure when you leave it’s in an unopened condition.’

  ‘Okay, DI Pickles. I’m on my way.’

  The address on the package said 23 Nightingale Road, but the driver had delivered to 23 Night Avenue. It was obvious to a simpleton that there was an issue, but Boris Bartosz had not seen the error when he had delivered the package and, besides, he didn’t care much either. Rodney’s was only a job and, as long as he was paid under the table and it didn’t impact the substantial money the British government gave him each month for his wife and five children, it was fine.

  ‘Madam?’ said Farhan Ahmed. ‘The door was opened by a vivacious blonde woman with breasts barely contained in the low-cut top she was wearing. She dressed as a twenty-something, although she was closer to forty, the blonde hair courtesy of a shop selling wigs. ‘The name’s Ahmed.’

  ‘Yes, how can I help you? Do come in,’ the woman smiled knowingly.

  ‘I’m with the transport company that delivered a package to you,’ said Ahmed. ‘Unfortunately, the driver – or, should I say, the silly fool – confused the address.’

  ‘I received a parcel today, but I wasn’t sure what it was for.’ She had misinterpreted the reason for his knocking on her door.

  ‘Did you accept it?’ he asked. It was a suitable approach for an insurance company to conduct evaluative checks on Rodney Marshall’s company. There had been a few too many claims and, unless they could prove fraudulence, they’d be obliged to pay.

  ‘If someone wants to give me something for free then that’s fine. Besides, it may belong to one of my gentleman friends. I don’t ask questions as long as they pay me regular.’ She winked at him in a knowing fashion.

  ‘Have you opened it?’

  ‘Not yet, but if you say it belongs to you, then maybe you should take it?’

  ‘Thanks, I’ll do that.’

  Five minutes later, Farhan Ahmed beat a hasty retreat as the vivacious blonde attempted to remove his overalls.

  ‘One hundred pounds and I’m all yours.’

  ‘No thanks, I’m married.’

  ‘All my gentlemen friends are married.’

  ‘What was in it?’ Isaac and Ed asked on the conference call to Farhan. Both were highly amused and teasing him, an extremely conservative man, who did not see the humour in being almost seduced by the local tart.

  ‘Books, just books, that’s all there was,’ he said.

  ‘What did you do with the box?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘I delivered it to the correct address.’

  ‘You weren’t seen?’ Ed asked.

  ‘No, I checked first.’

  ‘You know what this means?’ Isaac said.

  ‘Yes,’ Ed responded, ‘it was a test for Shafi.’

  ‘What about the churches? Is the attack this Sunday?’ Farhan asked.

  ‘It looks that way. We don’t have any idea where they’ll hit,’ Detective Chief Inspector Isaac Cook said.

  Chapter 2 1

  With a lull in the bombings around the country, and no further leads, Frederick and Andrew turned their focus to the lost submarine. It was unclear as to where it would take them, but they felt it may assist in their analysis of further possible actions by the Islamic State.

  Isaac Cook was not so sure when they initially contacted him. ‘Where’s the advantage?’

  ‘It’s unclear,’ Andrew said, ‘but we have a submarine that was taken out, and we have no answers as to how they managed to do it.’

  ‘But what’s the relevance? We’re dealing with the churches now. Can’t you help us there?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘How? We can only advise,’ said Andrew. ‘The situation seems clear that it’s this Sunday or the next, and there will be twenty, maybe more, hit. Apart from that, we can’t be more specific.’

  ‘Andrew, you must appreciate that we’re extremely busy here at the present moment.’

  ‘Isaac, we feel this is important.’

  ‘Okay,’ Isaac relented. ‘I’ll get someone from the Navy down to your office in the next day or so.’ The pressure of contacting all the churches in the country, knowing full well that most would ignore a clear directive to shut their doors, was weighing heavy on him and his department.

  Captain Alan Macintyre arrived promptly at eight in the morning, less than twenty-four hours after Isaac Cook had promised to secure someone.

  ‘I’m with naval engineering, served on submarines,’ he said on entering Frederick and Andrew’s office.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ Andrew said. ‘Have our requirements been discussed with you?’

  ‘I was told you wanted to talk to someone who understood submarines,’ Captain Macintyre replied.

  ‘That’s partly what we want,’ said Andrew. ‘But we want to understand how you can sabotage a submarine. What would it take, how many people involved?’

  ‘It’s not that difficult if you know what you’re doing,’ Captain Macintyre said with a strong Scottish accent. He had a mop of flaming red hair and a girth that would struggle in the narrow confines of a submarine.

  ‘It’s an inside job,’ Frederick ventured an opinion.

  ‘We’ve not proven that yet,’ Andrew reminded him.

  ‘Let’s assume it was,’ Frederick said. ‘The Islamic State did claim responsibility. It was weeks later when it was discovered at the bottom of the sea.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right there,’ Captain Macintyre said. ‘Let’s work on the assumption that it was them.’

  ‘What’s the best way to take it out?’ Frederick asked. ‘Gas or explosives?’

  ‘Either would work, but I’d discount gas.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘Gas, unless it’s extremely toxic and fast-acting, could be vented, cleansed through the filtration systems on board.’

  ‘And what if it was fast acting?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘It would need to be placed in multiple locations throughout the boat,’ Captain Macintyre replied.

  ‘Could it be done?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘It depends on how big the pressurised containers are.’

  ‘We’ve no idea,’ Frederick said.

  ‘I’d reckon about the size of a small fire extinguisher,’ Captain Macintyre said, ‘and then you’d probably need a hundred or so.’

  ‘Why so many?’ Frederick asked.

  ‘A nuclear submarine’s big,’ explained Captain Macintyre. ‘If there’s gas in one area, the other areas could effectively isolate themselves, surface quickly and then vent the boat in minutes.’

  ‘How about explosives?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘Multiple explosions across the length of the boat would work,’ Captain Macintyre said.

  ‘Couldn’t they have just immobilised the controls? Its ability to surface? Its ability to cleanse the air inside the boat?’ Frederick asked.

  ‘They’re all backed-up with duplicates,’ Captain Macintyre said. ‘It’s possible, but hard to achieve. I’d still go for explosives.’

  ‘Does it need a lot of explosives?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘Not really, but they’d have to be spread throughout the boat.’

  ‘A tradesman could take them in?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘It’s possible, but everyone is subject to the strictest security checks. It’s unlikely it’s someone working on the boat.’

  ‘Are you saying it could be a crew member?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘That seems to be what I’m saying, but a serving Royal Navy person?’ the Captain reluctantly said. ‘It’s hard to imagine.’

  ‘That’s what Frederic
k and I do,’ said Andrew. ‘That forms the basis of our analysis. We look at the unimaginable.’

  ‘But who would do that?’ Captain Macintyre asked.

  ‘That’s why you’re here,’ Frederick replied.

  ‘Tell me what you want.’

  ‘Firstly, we will need a full inventory of the crew and their families.’ Andrew was feeling increasingly confident that, with Captain Macintyre in the office, they may well be able to deduce some valuable information.

  ‘Why do you want to look at their families?’ Macintyre asked. ‘What would they have to do with it?’

  ‘As we said, we look at the unimaginable,’ Andrew said.

  ‘Okay, I’ll get you what you want. What else?’

  ‘Is there a record of personnel entering and leaving the submarine during the three-week period prior to its departure?’ Andrew continued.

  ‘Everyone would have had a pass. They would have been logged in and out. I should be able to get that for you.’

  ‘Medical reports, psycho-analysis evaluations conducted on crew members?’ Frederick added.

  ‘They would have all been subject to testing. Some people freak out once they’re inside,’ Captain Macintyre said.

  ‘That’s probably all for now,’ said Andrew. ‘We’ll need you to stay with us for the next few days while this is all collated and we can form some opinions.’

  ‘That’s okay by me,’ the Captain said. ‘They’ve put me up in a nice hotel. I’m fine for as long as you want me.’

  ***

  The Rev Boyd Danvers, newly ordained and enthusiastic for his first sermon in his first parish at St Thomas’, was not going to close the church on a Sunday. It was a fine old church, in a residential suburb of Brighton on the south coast of England.

  ‘Boyd, what are you going to do about the warnings?’ Jessica, his wife of two months, asked. ‘The police are stating that an imminent attack is expected this Sunday. We should not place people at risk.’

  ‘Jess, you’re worrying too much. We’re on God’s work. We can’t close just because it may be too dangerous, too wet, too risky. We’re not a shop, we’re a church.’

  ‘They nearly took down York Minster, didn’t they?’ she reminded him.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘and with divine providence it was forestalled. The Lord will protect us.’

  Isaac Cook had been placed in a quandary. If they announced on the media that a church or churches were due to be attacked, it might put Shafi in an uncomfortable situation. If they said nothing, then a lot of people may die.’

  ‘Isaac,’ Commander Richard Goddard had offered his opinion when approached by Isaac, ‘you can’t let people die just because it may interfere with your plans.’

  ‘We’re getting close with these people. I don’t want to frighten them off. They could easily go quiet for a while. The department will lose its autonomy and then the Islamic State will resurrect, and we’ll be left floundering.’

  ‘I realise that. Can’t we issue a statement to the media that is direct but does not give away inside information?’ Commander Goddard said.

  ‘We don’t really have any inside information, only suppositions,’ said Isaac. ‘But Vane and Martin’s suppositions are proving to be spot on.’

  ‘Make the statement, be vague on detail and at least some lives will be saved. Any idea how many churches there are in this country?’ Goddard asked.

  ‘It’s close to forty thousand.’

  ‘Hell, there’s no way the police could ever provide security to that number.’

  ‘They can take their pick, and there’s no way Vane and Martin can analyse areas, let alone churches,’ Isaac said.

  Morning service at St Thomas’ was at eight in the morning and the Reverend Boyd Danvers had spent half the night practising his sermon. He was a little nervous but, with his wife by his side, he was sure he would get through without fumbling his lines, tripping over his tongue.

  Fifteen minutes before the service started and there was a record turnout for the new vicar’s maiden sermon, at least eighty-nine, including one parishioner, who sat by himself close to one of the pillars in the centre of the church. If anyone asked his name, he was Wally Williams, a builder by trade, a Christian by devotion. An individual in his late twenties, clean-shaven, with neatly combed hair, a dark pair of trousers and white, open-neck shirt, he represented the move by the modern youth of the district to embrace the Church, in defiance of the ever-increasing decline in morals and decency in the general community. At least, that was the rehearsed speech if questioned.

  It was twenty-five minutes after the commencement of the service that the Reverend climbed the steps to the pulpit to deliver his sermon. His knees were shaking, but he was sure that only his wife noticed. The pulpit, an old stone structure built four hundred years previous, was reminiscent of the age of the building. It was a magnificent structure, built to withstand the ravages of age and its possible desecration during the English civil war.

  Wally Williams, the silent worshipper, stood up at the same time as the Reverend ascended the steps. He moved to the centre aisle and, with the words ‘Allahu Akbar’ echoing through the church, he pulled the trigger hidden in his pocket.

  The Reverend felt the blast of rushing air and was thrown back ten metres, breaking both his legs in the fall. His wife, seated to one side, was hurled against the stone of the pulpit and killed instantly. There were eighty-eight parishioners, one Islamic State martyr and one man of the cloth. Only the man of the cloth survived.

  ***

  Yasser Lahham had been spending his time since his release on the task given to him by the Master. It had taken some impressive software, some skilled programming, but he had succeeded. He was pleased with his work.

  ‘I have hacked into New Scotland Yard as you requested,’ Yasser Lahham proudly announced at his next meeting with the Master. He was satisfied with his achievement but concerned that, since his release, he had become no more than an employee in the back room. He had assumed that he was to play a significant role in the senior leadership, but that appeared not to be the case.

  ‘Praise be to Allah. What does this mean for us?’ the Master asked.

  ‘Given time, I could attempt to plant a virus in their database, destroy police records.’

  ‘Wouldn’t they be backed up?’ The Master, not computer literate, knew that was what they did weekly down in the accounts department of one of his businesses.

  ‘Yes, almost certainly.’

  ‘What would we gain by such a move?’ the Master asked.

  We would cause them inconvenience,’ Yasser Lahham replied.

  ‘That’s not good enough. Can you check on their security?’

  ‘It should be possible. May I ask for what purpose?’

  ‘Could we get one of our martyrs into there?’ the Master asked.

  ‘The security checks would be virtually foolproof.’

  ‘But you are not a fool,’ the Master said. ‘To a smart man such as you, it should be possible to disable them.’

  ‘They’ll still have plenty of people on duty to do physical patting down, x-ray scanning.’

  ‘Then we need a diversion.’

  ‘What sort of diversion?’ Yasser Lahham asked.

  ‘Yasser, you figure it out,’ said the Master. ‘But give our martyrs a ten-minute window to slip through.’

  ‘Is there any particular target?’

  ‘Aim for senior management. If that’s not possible, then maximum casualties,’ the Master said.

  ***

  ‘There you are, Prime Minister. There’s your period of calm. Twenty churches, although one was lucky when the bomber blew himself up outside. How many people dead? I’ll tell you. It’s close to fifteen hundred.’ Anne Argento was on the offensive again and this time, she didn’t care who heard in Number 10, Downing Street. The situation was serious, and she intended to do something about it.

  ‘You’re right, Anne. There can be no peace.’ Cliffo
rd Bell, the Prime Minister, was forced to admit that his previous statements on the possibility of an enduring calm in the country had been verbiage, nothing more.

  ‘What are you going to do about it? Are you going to sit on your hands hoping it will go away, or will you make a stand?’

  ‘I’ll make a stand,’ he replied.

  ‘You’ll declare war?’ she asked, hoping that he would act, knowing that he wouldn’t.

  ‘It’s not war. It’s a mass civil disturbance. You still don’t get it, do you?’ He was adamant. ‘I know what you’re doing. You’re asking me to stand up in parliament, announce we’re at war and then be howled down by the Opposition.’

  ‘You’re the Prime Minister. What does it matter if that slimy Leader of the Opposition Bakewell howls you down? You howl back at him. Tell him to sit down and shut up.’

  ‘He’s got the numbers to veto our austerity bill.’

  ‘What does that matter? Set up a war council. Invite some members of the Opposition on board, even the Honourable Leader of the Opposition, and ram your bill through.’

  ‘And you’ll be there supporting me?’ the Prime Minister asked.

  ‘If you act now.’ It was a bold statement from the Deputy Prime Minister, but she knew that Prime Minister Clifford Bell was not the man for the fight. She’d push him till he resigned.

  ‘I don’t think I could ever act in a manner that you deem necessary,’ the Prime Minister said.

  ‘You’re probably right.’ She had judged him well. ‘You just don’t have the killer instinct.’