Death by Design

by Barbara Nadel

  ‘What you doin’, guy?’ the man said again.

  İkmen shrugged. ‘Er . . .’

  ‘Listening to what the boss is sayin’ ain’t healthy, man,’ he said and reached forward and grabbed İkmen by the front of his shirt.

  ‘Um, Mr! Sir!’ İkmen stammered.

  ‘You come with me,’ the man said, ‘and let’s see what Mr Ülker has to say about all this!’

  Chapter 19

  * * *

  Wesley Simpson had told the Turkish bloke that he wasn’t interested in dodgy driving any more.

  ‘Listen, man,’ he told him, ‘I don’t do none of that no more.’

  ‘Don’t do none of what?’

  ‘That crazy fast getaway driving,’ Wesley had said. ‘I don’t do it! Happy to drive in your moody pills and take away your less than authentic handbags, but driving people? No way, man. Especially not at speed. I know what that means and I ain’t doin’ it!’

  But then the Turk had made him, as the Godfather said, an offer he couldn’t refuse, and Wesley had not just weakened but totally collapsed. That was money! That was money that could make you disappear completely, and in some luxury too. Wesley had always fancied Rio de Janeiro. The scenery looked great, the beaches were beautiful, and as for the women . . . Also, there was that whole Ronnie Biggs connection. So even if the Old Bill did track him down to Rio, they couldn’t get him. Unless that whole situation had changed. That was a worry. That bothered Wesley almost as much as thinking about who or what he would be carrying in the car the Turk had given him. Nice motor. Subaru. Plain, though, not so much as a different-coloured fin on it. Wesley looked down at it parked outside on the street. Had it been his he would have pimped that thing till it shone. But this job was all about discretion. Discretion but no violence. Ahmet Ülker had promised no violence. All he had to do was get himself to somewhere in London he would be told about the next day and then he’d have to drive somewhere outside the capital. Simple! Money for old rope – except that there was no such thing.

  Wesley had bought himself a curry from the Indian on the corner by way of celebration, but now he found that even though the food looked and smelled great, he didn’t feel like eating it. The truth was that although the Turk said he wasn’t going to hurt anyone, he actually did hurt people all the time. Those pills for arthritis were a case in point. They didn’t work and so those taking them stayed in pain. That wasn’t good. That wasn’t like driving off from a robbery. No one had ever got hurt at any of the jobs he’d been on and that was something that Wes was proud of. But this job for Mr Ülker was making him anxious because it was Mr Ülker who’d asked him to do it. Not even the money was making him feel better about it.

  The phone on Riley’s desk rang just as he was about to leave for what little sleep he could get that night. He answered it. It was the acting commissioner.

  DC Ball, who was just finishing up some paperwork at his desk across the office, kept his head down and listened to the one-sided conversation. He was none the wiser when the call finished.

  Riley looked over at Ball and smiled. ‘Religion, eh?’ he said as he put on his jacket and made ready to leave.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Don’t know about you, Ball,’ Riley said, ‘but I was brought up a Catholic. Went to Mass every Sunday, went to Catholic schools. Did it all in good faith, as it were. Believed it all for a long time too. I still respect those who do believe, whatever they may believe in. What I cannot abide are those who just pretend. Know what I mean?’

  ‘What, those who pretend to believe in something that they don’t?’

  ‘Yes. Although really it goes further than that,’ Riley said. ‘Those who just pretend for the sake of appearances are one thing. My dad went to church just to please my mum, I know that. But there are also those who use religion cynically for their own ends.’

  DC Ball frowned. ‘Who we talking about here, sir?’

  Riley smiled and changed the subject. ‘Back in the old days I would have probably asked you down the pub for a pre-op pint,’ he said. ‘But I imagine you’ll just be wanting either a good night’s sleep or a half-hour jog on the treadmill.’

  ‘I was, er, I was going to have a bit of swim and then get some shut-eye,’ Ball replied. ‘But if you fancy a pint . . .’

  ‘No, no. It’s all right,’ Riley said. ‘I should go home and get some kip.’ He began to move off.

  ‘Sir, about religion . . .’

  ‘Do your best tomorrow, Ball,’ Riley said. ‘If we’re good and lucky then everyone will get what’s coming to him. Just keep on your toes. Miss nothing, see everything. Goodnight.’

  He left.

  Ball wondered about the phone call. He didn’t know who had called but it was clearly one of Riley’s superiors. The subject of religion had come up in the briefing. So what was new? Obviously something had to be or Riley wouldn’t have brought up the subject again. This left Ball with the question that if these people they were watching weren’t blowing themselves up for their religion, why were they doing it?

  Holding what remained of his nerve while at the same time continuing to maintain his lack of English was making Çetin İkmen’s heart pound and his whole body sweat. Everyone in that stuffy little office seemed to be speaking at once. Some, like Harrison, in English, Ülker and the man who had found İkmen in Turkish and English, and Ali Reza Hajizadeh and the ayatollah in what İkmen guessed was Farsi.

  ‘I’ll ask you again,’ Ülker said menacingly in Turkish to İkmen, ‘what were you doing listening to our conversation?’

  İkmen took a breath to calm his nerves and then repeated his story yet again. ‘I came in to use the toilet, effendi,’ he said. ‘I have a bad stomach. The food here I think. I needed water. I was leaving.’

  ‘This man,’ Ülker said as he pointed to the person who had found İkmen outside the office, ‘says that you had your ear pressed to the side of this office. Listening.’

  ‘No, effendi, I—’

  ‘He was definitely listening, Mr Ülker,’ the man said. Then turning to Harrison he added in English, ‘He had his ear to the wall. His face was concentrated, you know?’

  Derek Harrison scowled at him and said, ‘Who the fuck are you, mate?’ Then looking over at Ülker he said, ‘Bloody Yigit! It’s all his fault. He found him!’

  ‘He’s the uncle of the girl in the nail bar, Ayşe,’ Ülker said in English.

  ‘Yes, who comes from somewhere up bloody north!’ Harrison said.

  ‘Manchester.’

  ‘Yes, where we know—’

  ‘Derek, there is an Ertegrul family in Manchester. I checked,’ Ülker said. ‘You think I’d leave anything like this to chance? She is perfectly on the level, even if her uncle here isn’t.’

  İkmen breathed a little easier; the Met and Greater Manchester police forces had obviously built Ayşe’s cover story well.

  ‘Doesn’t stop him being—’

  Ülker cut across Harrison’s words and said to İkmen, ‘What were you doing, Çetin? Were you trying to get information to maybe use to blackmail me?’

  ‘No. I came to the toilet.’

  ‘So you keep saying. But Çetin,’ Ülker raised the knife that he had been pointing at İkmen’s chest up to his throat and said, ‘I just can’t believe you. As my friend Derek has just said, although I know your niece Ayşe, I don’t know you. You could have an agenda that Ayşe doesn’t know about, you could be working for one of my rivals—’

  ‘I swear—’

  ‘And secondly, I have something very important I have to do tomorrow which means I cannot afford any slips-ups, weak links or other problems.’ He smiled and then said to the others in English. ‘I don’t think we have any choice but to kill him.’

  ‘His niece will come looking for him,’ Harrison said. ‘You going to kill her too?’

  Ülker shrugged. ‘If necessary. But by that time some missing girl and her illegal uncle will be the least of the authorities’ worries in this city
.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘Unless of course this man is actually a police officer,’ a very cultured voice said in English from behind Harrison’s tall body. Ayatollah Nourazar moved into the middle of the room as if his feet were on casters. ‘Killing a police officer attracts a serious prison sentence in this country.’

  ‘It is not in my plan to get caught,’ Ülker replied acidly, also in English.

  ‘No, but should something go wrong, a police officer as hostage gives us some power. If we kill him, they will hunt us down relentlessly. The police do not like to lose one of their own.’

  ‘Yes, but is he a copper?’ Harrison asked.

  They all looked at İkmen who just stood breathing heavily. Was this a trick on the ayatollah’s part to get him to reveal himself to them or was the cleric making a genuine point about the virtues of having a police hostage? He couldn’t make up his mind. His thoughts and his heart were racing far too fast for him to be able to come to any sort of rational conclusion. All he felt was that it was for the moment essential he didn’t speak English. He clung to that one coherent thought.

  After what seemed like forever, Ali Reza Hajizadeh spoke. ‘I am inclined to go along with the ayatollah—’

  ‘You bloody would!’ Harrison cut in.

  ‘Derek! Let him speak!’ Ülker said.

  ‘I will be beyond such things by then but if this man is a police officer then maybe you can use him to bargain if you need to. Dead, he will be useless to us. Alive . . .’ He shrugged. ‘I am sure, Ahmet, that he can be kept secure here for the time being.’

  Frowning, Ahmet Ülker looked at İkmen and then pushed the knife a little harder against his throat. İkmen gulped and then gulped again as he felt his mouth go bone dry.

  Chapter 20

  * * *

  Based in an office loaned to the Met by a firm of accountants on the fifth floor of Minster Court, Patrick Riley and Carla Fratelli looked down into Mark Lane at the first commuters of the day coming into the city from Fenchurch Street station. It was 7 a.m. and he’d only had one hour’s sleep and was feeling as grey and dismal as the weather. She, on the other hand, was as fresh as new-mown grass.

  ‘Squash,’ she said in answer to his unspoken question. ‘That’s the secret of my bright-eyed and bushy-tailed look.’

  ‘Playing squash.’

  ‘As soon as I finished last night I was on that court,’ she said. ‘Hammering away until I was knackered. Then bed for three hours and here I am.’

  ‘Minus coffee and fags,’ Riley said as he peered down mournfully into his paper cup of muddy coffee.

  Fratelli didn’t answer. She knew that he drank far too much coffee. She also knew that he still smoked occasionally. She didn’t approve.

  ‘The super’s arrived at the station,’ Fratelli said as she took a swig from her small bottle of water. ‘The first shift is in place.’

  The early shift, which consisted of ten officers in plain clothes, were positioned in and around Mark Lane and Fenchurch Street station. Superintendent Williams was already in an office above the station with a small team of junior CID officers. Riley and Fratelli were in place and the acting and assistant commissioners were coordinating the operation from Scotland Yard. In addition, three counter-terrorism security advisers were in attendance, as was a CO19 armed response unit. Nothing was being left to chance.

  ‘Do you think they’ll go for the rush hour?’ Fratelli asked Riley as she looked down into the grey street below.

  ‘It’s possible,’ Riley replied. ‘Although as far as we know Harrison and Hajizadeh are still at the factory in Hackney Wick. Went there last night.’

  ‘And they’ve not moved out since?’

  ‘According to the team on the ground, Ülker left at about three and drove back to his Bishops Avenue place,’ Riley said. ‘There was no one else with him as far as they could tell. He’s still there.’

  ‘So Ali Reza and Harrison remain at the factory?’

  ‘Apparently.’

  ‘No movement from Wesley Simpson?’

  ‘No. He’s at home, although there is a performance car outside his place which isn’t his, but . . . You know Wes. In addition, we have no real idea where Nourazar or any of his acolytes might be either. Possibly at the factories. Ülker’s Dalston flat is quiet, the Leswin Road place is quiet – all quiet on the western front, it would seem.’

  Fratelli scanned the street below once again and said, ‘Yes. As you say. All quiet.’

  Ahmet Ülker left Cengiz, the man who had found İkmen listening at the office, and the burly Mustafa in charge when he left. İkmen himself was not in a good state either physically or mentally. He had never employed torture himself, not only because he objected to it on humanitarian grounds but because in his opinion it didn’t work. And he had just proved that point.

  It had all started out very conventionally with a good old-fashioned beating. A couple of the ayatollah’s men had obliged but luckily for İkmen they were not the brightest buttons in the box – they kicked his ribs and back mainly, so he had managed to protect his head quite effectively. But when that stopped and Nourazar began on him with a razor blade, things deteriorated rapidly. There was something about the slow and deliberate cutting of flesh that was utterly terrifying. The term ‘mad with fear’ took on new meaning. The actual cutting didn’t hurt, but afterwards the pain was excruciating and any movement caused the wounds to widen and ensured they kept on bleeding. Cuts to the face and the scrotum were the most difficult to deal with, both physically and psychologically. Part of him wanted to cry out and declare who and what he was when Nourazar cut him just underneath his eye. But fear of a double bluff on the part of his tormentors kept him silent. If Ülker and his friends found out that he could speak English, they would know he was a plant and they would kill him, police officer or not. And so he maintained his Çetin Ertegrul persona and not one word of English escaped his lips.

  Before they did anything they had stripped him naked and crushed both his mobile phones on the floor, and now that they had finished with him he was cold, in pain, bleeding and barely conscious. After some argument, they had chained him to one of the benches at the back of the factory and then gagged him with sticky tape. İkmen had never been naked in public before, not that any of the poor slaves working away at their sewing machines seemed to notice. But he was vaguely aware of Nourazar’s eyes on him from time to time, of the occasional cuff around the head from one of the Iranian’s men. Not that any of this was really exercising İkmen’s mind at the present moment. The only clear thought in his head now was how he was going to get the message out that Mark Lane was not these people’s intended target. Ali Reza, with the help of Harrison, was planning to blow up a tube station.

  Ahmet Ülker had finally left the factory at what İkmen estimated was two or three o’clock in the morning. First he had unloaded boxes from his car, some sort of people-carrier, then loaded more stuff into it. He did this in full view outside. Ülker and his people appeared to either know or suspect that they were being watched. But before the car left the factory, both Harrison and Ali Reza Hajizadeh had got into it and lain down in it out of sight.

  At one point, as he lay naked and chained, İkmen saw his fellow guest house resident, Süleyman Elgiz, but he didn’t seem to want to register İkmen’s presence at all. Only the black man with the wounded eyes who had seen İkmen listening at the office so much as glanced at him. It was just the odd stolen look but it told İkmen that he had the man’s sympathy. Maybe he’d been through something like this himself.

  The constant noise from the machines as well as the sickening smell of himself and of others made İkmen want to vomit. Had he eaten anything much the previous evening, he probably would have done so. But perhaps fortunately his stomach was fairly empty. One thing he did really want, however, apart from his freedom, was a cigarette. But that wasn’t possible.

  He was still thinking of the cigarettes in his jacket pocket when he blac
ked out. When he came to some time later, to his amazement his jacket was right in front of his eyes. It was being worn, along with the rest of his clothes, by Ayatollah Nourazar. When the Iranian saw İkmen open his eyes, he smiled, took the policeman’s cigarettes out of his pocket and put them just where he couldn’t reach them.

  ‘Unpleasant habit,’ he said in English. He smiled again and walked away. İkmen, suddenly infuriated beyond belief, had to use every ounce of his self-control not to swear at him very colourfully in English.

  Ayşe had been expecting İkmen to get to the nail bar at about nine thirty. That was what had been agreed. Officers observing the site at Hackney Wick reckoned that İkmen had left the factory over an hour before. He’d walked out with Süleyman Elgiz and two other men who were known to come and go from the property. They had all, as was usual, made their way to the bus stop up on Homerton Road, and they had all boarded a bus bound for Stoke Newington. But it was well after ten now and still İkmen had not appeared.

  ‘Are you married?’ asked the small, thin girl whose tiny fingers Ayşe was holding.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Married,’ the girl repeated as she took one hand away and adjusted her headscarf. ‘Are you married?’

  ‘No.’ Ayşe forced a smile. The girl had said she was getting married the next day and wanted her nails to be painted dark green.

  ‘I’m very lucky,’ the girl continued. ‘My parents have chosen a very pious man for me and so I know that my marriage will be everything it should be. Such things give one confidence.’

  ‘Yes.’ Ayşe looked at her watch again and frowned. Even if he’d gone to buy fags, İkmen should have been here by now.

  The girl, seeing that Ayşe was clearly distracted, said, ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Ayşe said. ‘I’m just a little bit worried about my uncle. He’s new in town and . . . I’m just a bit concerned.’

  The girl looked suddenly concerned too. ‘Would you like to take a minute to call him?’