Murder Without Reason (DCI Cook Thriller Series Book 5)

by Phillip Strang

  The headlines in the more scurrilous newspapers, the Sunday rags, regarding the Honourable Deputy Prime Minister were neither correct nor accepting. The inference that she had been cavorting with a younger man, a black man, and a serving policeman at that, were designed to target the more narrow-minded in the community.

  Her lifestyle had always been a contentious issue, although the majority of people had accepted her sometimes indiscreet and unusual behaviour. There was a large proportion of the populace that enjoyed her flaunting of society’s values, her eccentricities and, as long as she did her job, the approval remained. The inference that she was exchanging privileged information with the handsome black policeman, young enough to be her son – he was not – caused a waning in her approval rating.

  ‘They can’t do this,’ Anne Argento was indignant. ‘You’re my senior adviser, advise.’

  ‘Deputy Prime Minister,’ said Rohan Jones, former supporter and friend of the Prime Minister and now an ardent supporter of the woman who was to become the next leader of the country. ‘You’ve just got to ignore it. Give it a few days and it’ll be old news.’

  ‘A day in politics is a lifetime, a few days are an eternity,’ she replied. ‘I could be dead and buried by then.’

  ‘I believe that you’re exaggerating.’

  ‘Rohan, don’t give me that nonsense. Look at the polls. I’m down at least eight per cent. They’re even starting to debate whether Clifford Bell is the better choice for this country.’

  ‘I’ve seen it, but it’s only the newspapers, the television stations attempting to fill up space, generate revenue. It’s nothing more.’

  ‘It’s nothing more, is that what you are saying?’ Anne was beginning to lose her cool. ‘It’s my future, and look what they’re saying about Isaac Cook.’

  ‘That you’re his sugar mummy?’

  ‘Yes, precisely. He doesn’t deserve that.’

  ‘Maybe, but you’ve both been indiscreet. You’re in the public eye and so is he. What did you expect?’

  ‘I expected our privacy to be respected. We’ve done nothing wrong.’

  ‘Deputy Prime Minister, it’s the real word. It’s not a court of law. Enough mud-slinging and some will stick.’

  ‘I know that, but I don’t want any sticking on me.’

  ‘Then distance yourself from the policeman.’

  ‘I won’t,’ Anne Argento responded.

  ‘You mean you can’t?’

  ‘Rohan, he’s a good man, and I’m entitled to a private life.’

  ‘You know that’s not true. Look what you did to Nicholas Hunt when you were after his job as the Secretary of State for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs.’

  ‘I earned that position,’ she said.

  ‘So, did the two tarts you set him up with.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I’m good at my job. I make it my business to know who is screwing who.’

  ‘I was right to take you from Clifford Bell. Get me out of this mess.’

  ‘I’ll deal with it,’ Rohan Jones said.

  ***

  Shafi’s conditioning had weakened since Yasser Lahham had fixed him up with a woman. It was apparent to Isaac Cook that he looked measurably improved since the last time he had seen him.

  ‘Why are we meeting here?’ Shafi did not understand the excessive secrecy. A rented office on a business estate in Ealing was not as preferable as a café or a restaurant where DCI Cook invariably bought him a decent feed.

  ‘You don’t watch the TV, read the newspapers?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘Oh, yes, you’re famous,’ said Shafi. ‘Screwing the Deputy Prime Minister. Can’t blame you, though.’

  ‘Shafi, I’m not and be careful of what you say about Anne Argento,’ Isaac responded indignantly. The ribbing from his fellow police officers down at New Scotland Yard was starting to wear thin.

  ‘You fancy her.’ Shafi saw the humour in the dignified, normally uptight policeman’s situation.

  ‘Last time we met, you were sullen, downcast.’

  ‘They worked on me.’ Shafi shuddered at the thought of his treatment.

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘Khalid and Mustafa, the Master’s bodyguards. They tortured me, beat me to a pulp. Hung me up like a piece of meat and then they gave me some electrical shocks.’

  ‘Why did they do that?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘The Master said it was for my benefit, to make me a devoted member of the Islamic State.’

  ‘And did it work?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘It did for a while, but then the Prof fixed me up with a woman.’

  ‘Are you working with us now?’

  ‘I need to be careful, but I think I am.’

  ‘You think you are?’

  ‘They said they’d torture me to death if they found out that I was betraying them.’

  ‘Then you need to be extra careful,’ Isaac said.

  ‘DCI Cook, we both need to be extra careful,’ Shafi replied.

  The office where they sat was sparse, poorly furnished with no more than four chairs, a cheap wooden table, and some plastic flowers in a vase in the small window at the rear. It was soon enhanced by the pizzas that DCI Cook had phoned for. He knew Shafi was not going to give him much while he continually grumbled about his empty stomach.

  ‘What do you know about the Master’s daughter?’ Isaac asked as Shafi finished the last slice of pizza.

  ‘The Master offered her to the Prof, but she rejected him.’

  ‘Can she do that?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘She did. The Prof said she’s beautiful.’

  ‘Is there anything else about her?’

  ‘Not really. She was at the house recently, but apart from that she keeps away.’

  ‘And the Prof, what’s he up to?’

  ‘He’s not happy. He thinks he’s no more than the office boy.’

  ‘Is that how he’s treated?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘He thinks he is, but he’s a smart guy. Smart guys usually have a higher opinion of themselves than they should,’ Shafi said.

  ‘I need you to find out what the Prof is up to.’

  ‘You want to get me killed?’ Shafi reacted with fear.

  ‘I need to know who else is a key member in the organisation.’

  ‘You know about Haji?’ Shafi asked. ‘He’s clever, stays in the shadows, but he’s heavily involved.’

  ‘I know about Haji. Find out what the Prof knows about him.’

  ‘If I get killed here, then I’m going to blame you.’ Shafi was nervous.

  ‘And if you don’t get killed, I’ll ensure that you receive a full pardon from the Prime Minister and recompense for the time you spent in Belmarsh.’

  ‘Your girlfriend can fix all this up?’ Shafi asked.

  ‘She’s not my girlfriend,’ replied Isaac, ‘but when she’s Prime Minister she can do exactly what she likes.’

  ‘I still reckon you’ve got good taste. A Prime Minister of England and a good sort as well. You’ve got it made.’ Shafi did not believe Detective Chief Inspector Isaac Cook’s denial in reference to the subject of Anne Argento for one minute.

  Chapter 2 6

  Ernest Bakewell, the Leader of Her Majesty’s Opposition in Parliament, revelled in the gossip, the innuendoes relating to Anne Argento.

  He weighed up his options on how to force her out of parliament, out of favour with the voting public. There was to be a general election in eighteen months’ time and he intended to win. Clifford Bell, he knew he could beat, but he wasn’t so sure about his deputy.

  ‘Would the Honourable Deputy Prime Minister make a comment about her relationship with Detective Chief Inspector Cook?’ Bakewell had decided to go on the offensive in the privileged environ of the Houses of Parliament.

  ‘The Honourable Leader of the Opposition takes the opportunity to indulge in giving credence to the gutter press of this country,’ she responded in a disinterested manner.

  ‘It is
easy to discard the press, or the gutter press as you call them,’ Bakewell fired back. ‘But there remains the question as to whether you are fit to hold the position in government that you cherish.’

  ‘Your comments are beneath contempt. It would be inappropriate to acknowledge your question with a response.’

  ‘Is it true,’ Ernest Bakewell continued, ‘that you have formed a friendship, a romantic friendship, with a man closely involved with counter-terrorism in this land?’ Bakewell had laid out a plan, an escalating plan, whereby his comments under the privilege of Parliament would allow him to go in deeper than he would risk in public.

  ‘The Honourable Leader of the Opposition should be reminded that he is bringing this House into disrepute.’ Anne Argento was on shaky ground with Bakewell. Any more of this and she’d leak the photos of him cavorting naked with a couple of young women. Rohan Jones would know how to arrange it, although she didn’t want to blow Bakewell out of the water just yet. There was a war cabinet to be put in place, and she wanted him to be an integral member, slimy individual that he was.

  ‘Do you want me to intervene?’ Clifford Bell, the Prime Minister, whispered in Anne Argento’s ear.

  ‘Keep out of it,’ she sharply rebuked him. ‘I can deal with this fool.’

  ‘Is it true that you have met him socially on a number of occasions?’ Ernest Bakewell continued his attack.

  ‘Who I meet socially is my business, not yours.’

  ‘So, you are confirming that you have met Detective Chief Inspector Isaac Cook on numerous occasions in discreet locations?’

  ‘I am neither confirming nor denying,’ replied Anne Argento. ‘I am entitled to a private life and I am not answerable to you or to this House.’

  ‘You are entitled to a private life only if it does not impact on the business of parliament, and if it does not impinge on the integrity and honesty of the police force of this great country.’ Bakewell was going for the jugular.

  ‘Are you accusing me of acting in a manner contrary to the best interests of this Parliament and this country?’ the Deputy Prime Minister responded.

  ‘I am asking you, Deputy Prime Minister,’ Ernest Bakewell felt that he was rattling the confidence, the tenacity of Anne Argento, ‘if you are willing to admit that your liaison with Detective Chief Inspector Isaac Cook is inappropriate.’

  ‘My liaison, as you put it, is both professional and polite. Any further remarks on this matter and I will ask the Speaker of the House to refer it to the Parliamentary Commissioner for Standards.’

  ‘Not your best day, you’d have to admit,’ Rohan Jones said succinctly later that night as they indulged in a few drinks at a bar not far from Westminster.

  ‘Agreed,’ said Anne, ‘but I didn’t want to take him down, not yet at least.’

  ‘Did you let him get the upper hand?’ Rohan Jones asked.

  ‘I will need his support later on.’

  ‘For what?’ he asked.

  ‘For when I declare war.’

  ‘And he’ll give you his support?’

  ‘He will when I offer him a significant part to play, and then there are the photos.’

  ‘You haven’t got any photos of me?’ Rohan Jones asked.

  ‘Why?’ replied Anne Argento mockingly. ‘Are there some that I should have? Have you been up to any shenanigans? Been messing around with toy boys, tarts?’

  ‘Me? No, I’m just a boring, humble senior adviser.’

  ‘You’ll never be boring or humble,’ she said. ‘And you’re as devious as I am.’

  ***

  Yasser Lahham saw the benefit of gaining the friendship of Shafi, not because he liked him, or saw him as his equal. He had a job for Shafi, a job for which he was eminently qualified.

  ‘Assuming I came to you and asked you to commit a crime for which they’d be no punishment?’ Yasser asked as they sat in a café not far from the Master’s house.

  ‘I’ve given up crime,’ said Shafi. ‘I’m going straight.’

  ‘I know what you did in Belmarsh.’ Yasser Lahham used his trump card.

  ‘Smuggling, that’s all.’

  ‘What about the killing of that young Muslim boy in the detention cell?’

  ‘I never killed anyone.’

  ‘I saw you replace the nylon cord back in the gym.’

  ‘I was doing a favour for Prison Officer Gilligan.’

  ‘They killed him, you know?’

  ‘Was it the Master?’ Shafi asked.

  ‘Yes, it was the Master, although Haji gave the instruction.’

  ‘What’s Haji’s position?’

  ‘He’s the Master’s primary adviser. Why are you so curious?’

  ‘Prof, I’m just nosy. You know that.’

  ‘I remember you asked too many questions in Belmarsh, nearly got yourself killed.’

  ‘I shut up once it was obvious that asking too many questions was dangerous to my health,’ said Shafi. ‘I went back to smuggling.’

  ‘And Soapy, when you weren’t murdering someone, that is.’

  ‘Prof, you can’t pin that on me.’

  ‘I’ve no intention of pinning anything on you if you just do one more thing for me.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I want you to kill someone.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Shafi, either you do, or I will release a dossier of your activities to the police, and not the Counter Terrorism Command that you’re so pally with.’

  ‘What do you mean by the Counter Terrorism Command?’

  ‘Shafi, you may be able to fool the Master, maybe even Haji, but you’ll never fool me. You’re playing both sides.’

  ‘You’re…’

  ‘Don’t deny it!’ Yasser Lahham cut Shafi off mid-sentence. ‘It doesn’t matter to me. You’ll be freeing society of someone who no longer serves the best interests of the Islamic State, someone that your friend the black policeman will approve of. He’ll see it as a benefit to society. But he’ll be wrong.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘Shafi, don’t bother,’ said Lahham. ‘You’ll do what you’re told when I give the command. Otherwise you know what will happen to you. Khalid and Mustafa will follow my commands, equally as well as the Master and Haji.’

  ***

  It had originally been Vane and Martin’s conundrum, now it was Cook and Martin’s. The time had come for a decision.

  ‘What does your friend say? I assume you’ve raised it with her?’ Andrew asked as they sat down late on the Friday night, one day ahead of the reception at Downing Street.

  ‘I did as you advised,’ Isaac Cook answered. ‘I hope you’re right on this.’

  ‘We deliberated long and hard on it.’

  ‘If we don’t let it follow through, then the fight against the Islamic State will be too late, ineffective?’ Isaac looked for a final affirmation that Andrew and Frederick’s analysis was correct.

  ‘That’s how we saw it,’ replied Andrew.

  ‘You’re asking a policeman to commit to a dereliction of duty.’

  ‘You’ve been involved all this time in the battle against the Islamic State. Do you think we’re winning?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Isaac. ‘Fewer bombings, but they did hit New Scotland Yard and the Houses of Parliament, and killed Ed Pickles.’

  ‘And Frederick, don’t forget.’

  ‘You’re certain of your facts?’ Isaac continued. ‘If we don’t fight back, they’ll continue to escalate their activities, become more strategic? Ultimately, they’ll force the government into granting them areas of the country as Sharia homelands.’

  ‘The government and the police will have no control. They will have to comply.’

  ‘It’ll be the end of England,’ Isaac commented.

  ‘It will take some years for them to achieve their aims, but we’re at the pivotal time. Another six months and it will be too late.’

  ‘I’m aware of that,’ Isaac acknowledged. ‘I’m with you. We have to
do this, accept the consequences if we’re wrong.’

  ‘We’re not wrong, but I hope your friend is with us,’ said Andrew. ‘We’ll need her protection, her confidence. Do you trust her, Isaac?’

  ‘Yes, both as a friend and as a leader of this country,’ Isaac replied.

  ***

  The numbers were larger than usual for Downing Street but Clifford Bell, the Prime Minister, was adamant.

  ‘We’ll hold it here.’ He was desperate for publicity, any publicity that showed him in a better light than the hammering he’d been receiving over the last few months in the media, in parliament and from his supposed loyal deputy. A presentation to grieving widows, distraught parents, and fatherless children, even if they were a result of his inability to stem the activities of the Islamic State, the ideal opportunity.

  Sara Styles, along with Ray’s parents had entered the building five minutes earlier after running the gauntlet of security gates, x-ray machines and bag searches at the entrance to the small street off Whitehall. There were to be over one hundred people, more than would normally be accommodated, but it was sunny, and the doors to the terrace and the gardens could be opened.

  The Pillared State Drawing Room, the largest in the building, was prepared for the reception. A picture of the Queen hung above the fireplace. A Persian carpet, a copy of a 16th-century original, covered the entire floor. The walls were adorned with artworks stretching back two hundred years portraying former Prime Ministers, former dignitaries, and former monarchs. It was into this room that Sara Styles walked.

  Her target was standing to one side of the room talking to a group of widows. It had been some months since the demise of the nuclear submarine, the pride of the fleet, and the solemn mood was not oppressive.