Slow Burn (2010)

by Conrad Jones

  “They bugged their meetings?”

  “Yes, Guv.” There were a few muted giggles around the room.

  “I bet those recordings are priceless!”

  “Do you want me to get hold of one, Guv?”

  “No, Nickie, I`ll give it a miss this time,” he smiled and motioned for her to continue.

  “There used to be a fairly large following of the National Front, around the Toxteth area, but its dwindled down to a half a dozen or so members. One of the original founders, Michael Street, stood as a BNP candidate in the last local elections. He seems to be a hard-core racist, Guv, criminal damage, riotous affray, assault with a deadly weapon, and incitement to riot. He served six months in ninety eight, for the assault charge. His medical records show that he has been treated for alcohol addiction.”

  “Our bomb maker isn`t a drunken thug,” Alec dismissed Street as a serious suspect immediately.

  “He`s on record threatening to burn down any Mosques that are built in the city, Guv.”

  “Okay, have CTU pulled him in?”

  “Everyone on these lists has been pulled in, questioned and released, Guv.”

  “Are they looking elsewhere?” Alec wanted to know if the terrorist unit were spreading their net wider, looking for other possible extremist groups further afield.

  “Yes, Guv, so far nothing to report.”

  Alec wasn’t surprised. This bomb wasn`t the work of egg throwing racist skinheads; It had been set off by experts. The image on the screen changed again, and the devastated van appeared on the screen.

  “What do we know about the device itself,” Alec looked to Will Naylor. His team had the newest information from forensics.

  “Forensics found the remnants of at least six detonators, Guv. The explosive compound had been cooked and mixed, with aluminium powder, and diesel, which increases the heat on detonation and ensures that all the fertiliser explodes. There were three metal drums packed with explosive, and wrapped with homemade shrapnel, ball bearings, and screws.”

  “Why would they need so many detonators?” Smithy asked. His ginger hair was ruffled and unruly.

  “Guv?” Will wasn’t sure what the answer was. He knew the Super had extensive experience of bombs from his days in Ireland.

  “Good question, Smithy,” Alec swept his fingers through his hair and frowned. Deep lines creased his forehead and chin as he prepared the answer. He didn’t want to lecture his team, but it was important that they realised how good the bomber was. “The problem with fertiliser bombs is they don’t always explode, especially if the mixture is moist. Any moisture at all will stop it exploding. This bomb maker painstakingly cooked the compound to remove all the moisture, and then mixed it. They used three drums. The detonation of one drum would not have triggered the others hence two detonators were used for each drum. Each drum was an independent device.”

  “So there were two detonators in each bomb, to make sure they all exploded?” The Super nodded. “Talk about belt and braces,” Smithy was impressed by the bomb maker`s skill.

  “Whoever set this bomb, Smithy, left absolutely nothing to chance. Carry on, Will.”

  “The devices were attached to a mercury motion switch, and a photo-cell trigger.” Will Naylor looked up at the confused faces around the room. “If the van had been towed or moved, it would have set off the mercury switch. If the back doors were opened the photo-cell would have triggered the devices.”

  “The bomb was going to explode, no matter what happened,” Alec added. “Which begs the question as to why would the bombers use a remote detonator, and risk being near the scene, unless he needed to see a target before he detonated it.”

  Eyebrows were raised, whispered thoughts were shared and nods of agreement spread around the room.

  “Smithy,” Alec turned toward the ginger detective.

  “Guv?”

  “Pick five detectives with a knowledge of figures and money trails, and find me a reason why Imran Patel and his wife were blown to pieces,” Alec was convinced that the motive was money. Organised crime families like the one headed by Malik Shah were worth billions, but a life is cheap. A hit could be ordered for a three-figure sum.

  “I`m on it, Guv,” Smithy pointed to five of his colleagues with his pen, and they nodded keenly, happy to be on his team. Some detectives got off on forensics, others interrogation techniques, but it was bank accounts and electronic transactions that did it for Smithy. With the best detectives and some time, he would find something.

  “Will, I want you and your team to focus on Shah`s enemies. Find me someone that wants to kill his accountant, cripple his business, and is capable of building this device.” Alec pointed to the van wreckage.

  “Guv,” Will smiled. He wanted this part of the investigation. It would involve pulling some of the city`s biggest scumbags in to the cells and rattling them around an interrogation room for twelve hours or so. Now that was something to look forward to.

  “The rest of you work on Malik Shah, and Ashwan Pindar. I want to know what they eat for breakfast, dinner and tea, what colour underwear they`re wearing, and I want some hard evidence that they`re criminals. I want these two men off the streets.”

  Alec Ramsey looked around the room and made eye contact with as many of his team as he could. Whatever happened with this investigation, Malik Shah was firmly in his sights.

  CHAPTER Seventeen

  MALIK AND ASHWAN/ present day

  Malik Shah pulled his cashmere overcoat tighter around himself. The wind from the River Mersey was howling through the railings that lined the front lawn at Ashwan Pindar`s house. The river was half a mile away down the hill, and he watched the dark green waters flowing lazily past into the Irish Sea. White horses tipped the waves, caused by the propellers of the passenger ferries, which crisscrossed the river heading to Ireland. The streetlights reflected from the murky waters like blurred yellow torches. His dark brown eyes were full of anger, and frown lines creased his forehead.

  “You have no idea who is doing this?” Malik turned to his colleague. Ashwan looked into his eyes momentarily, but the anger in them frightened him, and he looked down at his black shiny brogues. Malik frightened Ashwan; he had always dominated him since school. He had a violent temper, and Ash had witnessed its ferocity on many occasions.

  “Get rid of that,” Malik said kicking the dead body of Abdul Salim. Two bruisers moved in silence, one at the feet and one at the head. They lifted the body into the back of a Renault van. The van was sign painted with the name of a funeral parlour, one of three in the city owned by Shah`s limited companies. They were very good businesses, and handy for transporting bodies across the city.

  “What about the runners?” Ashwan asked. Once he had alerted Malik to the problem, he`d sent men out to find out what was happening. The news wasn’t good.

  “Both dead, and both connected to us,” Malik snarled. He spat on the floor in disgust.

  “How have we been connected?” Ash asked.

  “According to our men, the killers left a note pinned to Rozzo`s forehead, naming us as his employers. The police are all over the place,” Malik punched the garage door and it rattled. The funeral parlour van pulled out of the driveway, and Ashwan noticed Lana watching them from the front bedroom window. Malik followed his gaze. His eyes narrowed. “What has she said?”

  “Nothing,” Ash swallowed hard. It was a stupid answer, but he couldn’t think straight.

  “One of your dealers is shot and dumped on your lawn, and your son is missing, presumed kidnapped, and your wife hasn`t said anything?” Malik shook his head slowly in sarcastic disbelief. “I bet she`s had plenty to say.”

  “Fucking hell Malik!” Ashwan snapped. He took the picture of Mamood out of his pocket. “This is my son tied to a chair, Malik. We are going insane with worry, what do you think she has been saying?”

  “Let`s calm down and go inside,” Malik softened his voice for a moment. He wanted to speak to Lana. He had to speak to La
na. If she telephoned the police then all hell would break loose. Someone had crossed the line. He was under attack, there was no doubt about it, and he couldn’t for the life of him think who it was.

  Both men headed for the front door. Malik wore an expensive designer suit and a long overcoat. Ashwan was still wearing jogging bottoms and an old sweatshirt. Lana was walking down the staircase as they entered the hallway.

  “Who was that poor boy?” she asked.

  “No one we know,” Malik lied. His face was like stone, his eyes dark and narrow.

  “Why haven’t you called the police?” she looked directly at Ash. He shook his head and bit his bottom lip. The thoughts of his eldest son Mamood were consuming him. The kidnappers told him where to find a memory stick on the murdered dealer that`d been dumped on his lawn. It contained pictures of his son, bound and gagged; he looked terrified, and his eyes were reddened from crying. The photographs played constantly in his mind, each one worse than the next. Three of his employees had been butchered in order for this message to be sent to him, and he was under no illusions that his son was in grave danger. What he didn’t know was who was responsible, or why he had been targeted specifically. The kidnappers had made contact, but no ransom demands received yet.

  “We think someone is trying to set us up, Lana,” Malik interrupted before Ash could answer.

  “How so, Malik?”

  “One of our business rivals is out to cause us trouble,” Malik found it hard to hold her stare. Her eyes were red from crying. She was desperate to call the police and report her son`s kidnap. Ashwan had pleaded with her to wait for Malik to come. He would know what to do.

  “Are they the same people that have Mamood?”

  “I`m guessing so, Lana,” Malik needed to keep her on side. “I`ve asked Ash to think of someone that has been disgruntled or upset. An ex-employee or a rival that has lost a contract?”

  “What type of people do you do business with, Ashwan?” she looked bitter and angry. Her expression was pure contempt. Her son had been kidnapped; a boy had been murdered and dumped on their lawn, and her husband wouldn`t call the police. What type of father was he? What type of husband was he? She didn’t know what to do or think. “What type of businessmen would take your son, kill a teenager and dump him on your lawn, Ashwan?”

  “I don`t know, Lana” Ashwan turned his back and walked away from her.

  “Why haven’t you called the police, Ash, or am I missing something?”

  “Mamood would be in grave danger if you involve the police, Lana,” Malik leaned his back against an oak Welsh dressing table. He was cool, almost cold about it. “The kidnappers said, `no police or he dies`, correct?”

  “Why haven`t you called the police, Ashwan, what have you got to hide?” Lana ignored Malik. She hated the man with a passion. He was evil, and bullied Ash at every opportunity. Ashwan was his partner in name only. Malik Shah made all the decisions, and Ash was his whipping boy. He made her skin crawl the way he looked at her sometimes. “Tell me, Ash. What type of business associates would do this to you?”

  “Think hard, Ashwan,” Malik grinned. His whitened teeth seemed too straight to be real, but the Hollywood smile looked more like a sneer to Lana.

  “I have no idea, Malik. I`ve racked my brains trying to think who could do this, but I haven’t got a clue,” Ashwan shrugged his shoulders and tears filled his eyes. “Mamood has nothing to do with our business, why have they taken him ...why?”

  “Get a fucking grip of yourself!” Malik hissed. He couldn’t stand weakness in a man. “There are hundreds of people who would want to hurt you and your family, absolutely hundreds.” He pointed a well manicured finger toward Ashwan`s Porsche 911, which was parked fifty yards away on the driveway. “Do you think you`d be driving that if we sold newspapers?”

  “No, of course not, Malik, but...” Ash mumbled and tried to compose himself.

  “What do you do, Malik?” Lana tilted her head slightly.

  “Shut up, Lana, you`re not helping,” Ash tried to calm her, but she shrugged him off and stood eye to eye with Malik.

  “Tell me what my husband does for you?”

  “We import and export commodities,” Malik sneered. His patience was wearing thin. “You should be grateful, Lana, it pays for your nice house.”

  “Look, that`s not important now. Mamood is in danger,” Ash walked over to his wife and tried to hold her. She froze and held up her hands.

  “Don`t you touch me, Ashwan Pindar.”

  “I know you don’t understand, Lana, but...”

  “But nothing, Ashwan!” Malik had enough. He grabbed Lana by the upper arms, pinning them to her side. He shouted in her face.

  “We sell drugs, we sell whores, and we sell guns and ammunition, Lana.”

  Lana looked stunned, as if she had been slapped. Malik had his face inches away from hers; she could smell chilli and tobacco on his breath. His words echoed around her brain, drugs, whores and guns. Her husband imported drugs, whores, and guns. They were gangsters. Ashwan Pindar, the father of her child was a drug runner, people trafficker, and arms dealer. She went weak at the knees, only Malik`s grip held her up.

  “We work in a dangerous world, our enemies are always trying to steal our products, and take our business. When they do, we kill people and take all their money and drugs from them. It`s the survival of the fittest, Lana. Dog eat dog.” Malik let go of one of her arms, and grabbed her chin. For one awful moment, she thought he was going to kiss her. She felt bile rising in her throat. “Someone has taken your son, and I`ll find them. When I do I will cut his fucking heart out and bring it to you cooked and stuffed with cheese. The police cannot help you, Lana, but I can.”

  Lana slid down the wall slowly as he her knees finally gave way. Spittle dribbled down her chin and her lips quivered. She stared at her husband.

  “You are a liar!” she shouted to Malik. He stood over her like a boxer stalking his injured opponent. “Tell me that he`s a liar, Ash.”

  Ash couldn’t look at her in the eye. He rolled his eyes skyward and wished the ground would open up and swallow him.

  “Tell me!” she screamed. “Tell me he`s lying!”

  Ash walked over to her and moved Malik away with his forearm.

  “He`s not lying, Lana, but it`s not as bad as it sounds,” Ash could hear his own words, and he thought they sounded like the words of a desperate man; a drowning, man clutching at fresh air.

  “It`s not as bad as it seems?” Lana wiped saliva from her face and tried to gather herself together. “There was a dead teenager on my lawn tonight. My husband dragged the body of a dead teenager into my garage, and then telephoned his business partner to come and take it away.” She glared at Malik.

  “That`s what you did, isn’t it, Malik?” She stood on shaky legs and looked from Malik to Ash incredulously. “You made the body disappear didn’t you?”

  “We have to do what they say, no police.” Ash pleaded with her. She stared at him wide eyed, shocked and devastated at the revelations that she had heard tonight. She walked over to Malik Shah and looked up into his face.

  “Do you know who has my son?”

  “Not yet.”

  “The men that killed that boy, have Mamood?”

  “Yes, it looks that way.”

  “Get my son back.”

  “We will, but no police, Lana,” Malik half smiled. “You must let me do what I need to do to get him back. The police will get in the way.”

  Ashwan needed to sit down and walked across to the wide sweeping staircase. He plonked his weary body down on the bottom step.

  Lana leaned closer to Malik. She whispered in his ear. “You make me sick.” Malik frowned. He didn’t do insults well at all. “I see the way you look at me, Malik. Get my son back and you can have what you want. I`m not sure who disgusts me the most you or them.”

  Malik nodded and an evil smile crossed his lips as she walked away. He would enjoy doing that bitch, whether Mamood lived
or not, and he would make sure that she regretted that remark many times over.

  “Take your things and get out of my house,” Lana said as she walked by Ashwan.

  “What?” Ash stood up and grabbed her arm. “This is a shock, but we`ll fix it.”

  “Get your hands off me,” she hissed in his face. “I don’t even know who you are. Get out of my home. Get my son back, you owe me that.”

  CHAPTER Eighteen

  SARAH/School days

  The court usher seemed to glide as he walked into the Crown Prosecution chambers, his cloak floated behind him. At the door, he turned and waved his skeletal arm to guide Mr Bernstein and his daughter into the meeting room. They stepped in nervously.