by Parker Bilal
Clicking the computer into life, Ray scanned the news outlets to see if there were any updates on Magnolia Quays. She had been a little disappointed that DS Drake had been less than enthusiastic about her presence. It was easy to see that he was under a lot of pressure, and that made her curious. She checked her email and found a couple of preliminary forensic reports, so at least Wheeler was making sure that she was in the loop.
A search on Drake turned up quite a bit. She went out to the kitchenette they had in the reception area and fed the fish in the aquarium while waiting for the kettle to boil. When she got back to her desk she began to go through the search results. Almost all of them related to investigation into organized crime and a certain Goran Malevich, the head of a Bosnian Serb gang.
According to what she could access online, Drake had been demoted after the death of Malevich. The circumstances were not clear. Drake had been transferred out of the Met to a unit of the South Yorkshire police. She sat back in her chair. They had sent him to somewhere called Matlock. She wondered how he had found that. Six months ago he had been transferred back to the Met. As far as she could make out, the gist of it was that Drake had been suspected of having been compromised in some way. A key witness had disappeared under his watch; he’d been the undercover officer who had recruited Esma Danin, a hostess at one of Malevich’s clubs. She went by the name of Zelda and was to have been a key witness in the case. Then Zelda disappeared and the implication was that Drake had helped to get rid of her. In other words, he was playing both sides, taking money from Malevich while stringing along the Serious Crimes squad. The Crown Prosecution Service was adamant that their case against Goran Malevich had collapsed with the death of their star witness. Malevich had subsequently died, shot along with two of his bodyguards in what looked like a textbook gangland ambush. A car park in Brighton. CCTV deactivated. A hail of bullets from at least two AK47 assault rifles. The crime scene photos showed the bodies splayed out around a red Maserati that stood with its doors open.
The key figure in the case against Drake was DI Vernon Pryce, the man who had been leading the team. Drake had gone undercover while Pryce remained on the outside. Pryce had submitted three separate reports to the Professional Standards Department that Ray had managed to track down through her sources. Pryce put forward the same theory every time; that Drake had been turned and was on the payroll of Goran Malevich.
Ray’s coffee was cold. She pushed her chair back away from the desk and stood up, turning to face the window. It was gone three in the morning and the city was as quiet as it ever gets. High above the rooftops clouds swirled in that strange colour that came off the street lighting. A solitary night bus grumbled by at the end of the road.
What she loved about this corner of London was the way it connected to the past. The sooty old buildings. The mud, blood and tides that had washed through here over the centuries. You could feel the brush of ghosts rumbling through the walls, rattling the chains of history.
Was Drake bent, or had he been railroaded? Until the Malevich business had come along he had been an exemplary officer. He qualified as an actual hero, having been awarded a medal in the Iraq war. He had risen through the ranks from police constable to detective and his arrest record was outstanding. Not exactly corruption material. Going after Malevich was a considerable step up from ordinary investigative work. There was a lot at stake for him personally. Working undercover in an organization like that would have put him at serious risk. If Malevich had learned his true identity he would have paid with his life. But if they had pulled it off and taken down Malevich’s operation, it would have been a major coup for the squad and for him personally. So, had he lost faith? It was a question that intrigued her. She wanted to know more.
She sat back down again and composed an email to her contact in the intelligence services. Stewart Mason was somewhere in MI5 these days. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Drake exactly, she just wanted to know what she was getting herself into.
CHAPTER 16
When he was fifteen Drake discovered the answers to all his troubles in a single book. Something of a miracle in itself. He’d been looking for a way out. His own get-out-of-jail-free card, a secret rabbit hole that would deliver him from the chaos that he was drowning in. Doctor Crane might have said it was the missing piece in his life that should have been filled by his father. Drake wasn’t inclined towards self-analysis. Even back then he had been smart enough to realize that there was no simple set of answers to everything. What he did know was that if he didn’t change course he was going to wind up dead, stabbed in some pointless clash with another gang.
So one day he walked into an East London mosque and felt something stir in his soul.
It was the summer of 1995. The headlines were filled with stories about Muslims being massacred in Bosnia, a place he couldn’t have found on a map if you paid him. He’d never thought about any of this before, but suddenly it felt real. Here was history happening, not in a remote century, or in a book, but now, today. He felt as if he was the only witness. Nobody else seemed to care, as though it had nothing to do with them. He was starting to see the world for what it was.
They were living in a house in Bethnal Green, upstairs from his mother’s new boyfriend, and his wife, who didn’t know what was going on. Cal stayed out till all hours, carving out his own reputation. Running with the wild ones. The only thing he knew he could trust was a Stanley knife. He was set on course for a life that led straight through juvenile court to detention and a lifetime in and out of prison, with nothing but a string of tattoos to show for it. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.
That afternoon he had sheltered in a doorway. He was cold and so he joined the crowd of men arriving for Friday prayers. People murmured greetings, they stepped out of his way, made a space for him to stand between them. He lingered, thinking there might be a few pockets to pick. People focused on communing with their god. When the sermon was over, tea was served and a small group of them sat around in a circle and listened to this bearded man who spoke with passion about injustice.
‘Brothers, ask yourselves why it is the poorest people in this country who are in prison. Why are we at each other’s throats, fighting one another instead of fighting the powers of oppression?’
It felt as though the imam was speaking directly to him.
‘In the Holy Quran we are told, “Hold fast and be not divided among yourselves.” Our enemies profit from our divisions.’ He smiled around the group. ‘Only in Islam can we find the unity that gives us strength.’
Here, for the first time, was a place he could belong. The following week he found himself going back, and the week after that, and so it went. He had no idea what he was supposed to do. In the beginning, he simply followed the others in their routine, washing before prayer, sitting on the carpet, bowing down, rising up, finding solace in the Arabic words.
But it was in the study classes after prayers that he found purpose. Here they spoke of injustice, of what was happening in the world. He found his anger reflected and chanelled, and he began to understand that he was not alone, and that there was a name to this need for revolt he felt, and it was called Islam. For a time, that became his life.
It was an odd course, but it was his. And it had led him here, eventually, to Raven Hill where Milo had something on his mind. He was fidgeting, wrapping rubber bands around his fingers until they twanged off across the room.
‘Okay, Milo,’ said Drake. ‘What’s eating you?’
‘I’ve got something I think you should see.’
It was CCTV footage from the street leading past Magnolia Quays. Milo had it on fast forward. White lights cruised out of the darkness, flashing by, growing fewer as the hour ticked by on the counter, until it reached 22:47. Then the speed cut back to normal to reveal a Porsche Cayenne as it slowed to a halt before turning off onto the narrow access road.
‘I’ve managed to enhance the image. If you look closely at the interior?’ Milo cli
cked the mouse, bringing up a palette that allowed him to play with the light and zoom. ‘There’s only one person in there, a woman, presumably Marsha Thwaite. So where is Mr Hideo?’
‘The mystery man,’ said Kelly. ‘Maybe he’s one of those, what do you call it, ninjas?’
‘Are you serious?’ Milo looked up at her.
‘She’s not serious, Milo. Was he already on site?’
‘The security cameras at Magnolia Quays were disabled, so we have nothing from the front gate or the interior. The mud on the tyres of the Porsche suggests it was driven inside.’
‘So, Hideo might already have been inside the car?’
Milo sighed. ‘It’s possible.’
‘How about identifying the driver?’
‘That’s the best I can get.’ Milo shook his head in apology. Drake squinted at the blur of pixels for a time. Kelly leaned past him.
‘Could be a man in a wig.’
‘Let’s face it, that could be Kermit the Frog.’ Drake turned back to Milo. ‘Can we trace the car backwards?’
‘I tried.’ Milo was disheartened. ‘Too many on the road. Too many of the same model.’
Drake stared at the image. ‘What if that’s not Marsha Thwaite? We could be looking at the killer. That would mean he already had the victims in the car with him, restrained, tied up in some way, yeah?’
‘Sure.’ Milo bobbed his head. ‘It’s possible.’
‘So who’s driving the dumper truck?’
‘There are two of them,’ said Kelly. ‘Oh, before I forget, the caretaker, Mr Carattack?’
‘What about him?’
‘He came back with a list of people who had not turned up for work.’
‘And, anything interesting?’
‘One, possibly.’
‘One of his illegals?’
Kelly shrugged vaguely. ‘He didn’t like the look of him.’
‘Do we have a name?’
‘Wally.’
Drake squinted. ‘Wally? That’s it? No surname, nothing?’
Kelly shook her head. ‘Says he can’t remember. He’s going back through the files to see if he can find it.’
‘What was odd about him, then?’
Kelly shrugged. ‘Apparently Mr Cricket just didn’t like the look of him. Head not good.’ She did a passable imitation of the Magnolia Quays’ gatekeeper, complete with head wagging.
‘Head not good. Just the kind of nuanced description we relish.’
‘Thought you’d like it.’
‘Get back to him. Talk to his lawyer. Tell him it’s not good enough.’
‘I’ll try.’
Drake kicked his chair back from the desk and got to his feet. ‘I’d better go up and have a word with the chief. Any sign of that shrink, by the way?’
‘Doctor Crane, you mean?’ Milo sounded defensive.
‘Yes, Doctor Crane. No sign of her today?’
Milo shook his head.
‘Must have something better to do with her time,’ said Kelly.
‘Great,’ said Drake. ‘One other thing. Hideo’s daughter mentioned a picture.’
‘Ukiyo-e,’ supplied Kelly.
‘Exactly.’
‘Japanese woodblock painting?’ asked Milo.
‘Impressive,’ whistled Kelly.
‘Check his mails, text messages, see if there is any mention close to his disappearance.’
‘I’m on it, chief.’
On his way upstairs Drake ran into DCI Pryce. A big man, putting on weight as he headed into middle age. A broadening gut along with a narrow jaw and straight hair cut so short it looked like iron filings stuck to his head. Vernon Pryce. Three years ago they had worked together on the Malevich case. It hadn’t been a perfect partnership, and when it all went sour the blame fell on Drake’s shoulders. Pryce had been smart enough to get out from underneath, partly by pointing the finger at Drake. He’d even managed to get himself promoted and was now in charge of some unit or other over at New Scotland Yard in Whitehall.
‘Well, look who it is, the man of the hour.’
‘Vernon. Still crawling your way up the ladder?’
‘Enjoy your moment in the spotlight, Cal. You’ll be off the case before you know it.’
‘Nice seeing you, too.’
Pryce was already gone, bounding down the stairs trying to look athletic. Wheeler was in a foul mood.
‘I’ve just had Pryce in here pressing to take over the case.’
‘Can he do that?’
‘If we give him a reason.’ Wheeler lifted his chin. ‘Tell me you’re making progress.’
‘Some, but it’s slow going.’
‘That’s not good enough. We’ve got the whole world looking up our skirts on this one.’
‘Right, sir.’ Drake often wondered about the superintendent’s metaphors, but perhaps this wasn’t the moment.
‘It’s already getting traction in the press.’ He passed a hand over the newspapers spread out before him on his desk. ‘Did you give any more thought to bringing Doctor Crane in on this?’
‘I still don’t see the point of it.’
‘She’s good, Cal. Has a profile in the media. They know her. She’ll give our case credence.’
‘Sir, all due respect, but shouldn’t we just be focusing on solving the case?’
Wheeler leaned back in the big leather chair and looked up at Drake.
‘You begged me to give you the case, but I’m not sure you grasp the significance of it. If you don’t clear this one fast, and I mean fast, you’ll never get another chance.’
‘I appreciate that, sir.’
‘I hope so, for your sake. Get over your prejudice about shrinks and listen to what she has to say. What?’ Wheeler had been swinging from side to side in his chair. The expression on Drake’s face caused him to stop.
‘Nothing. Just that she thinks we’re dealing with some kind of Islamist revival.’
Wheeler frowned as though in pain. ‘I don’t know anything about that. I do know that she’s highly qualified, speaks seven languages, all that kind of thing. Next to her, you’re a Neanderthal. And that’s not some kind of racial slur, by the way.’
‘Never entered my head.’
‘So, tell me where we are.’
‘We’re tracking Thwaite’s car backwards to find out where the victims were picked up.’
‘Forensics?’
‘Nothing concrete as yet.’
‘What we need, Cal, what you need, is a miracle. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Sir?’
‘Okay now, formally, I have promised Pryce you will keep him informed of your progress. That might keep him out of your hair for a bit.’
‘Right, sir.’
Downstairs, Drake found himself staring at the notice board. His eye shifted to the map of the crime-scene area. Once again he traced the access road leading south east from Magnolia Quays.
‘Freetown,’ said Kelly, as she was passing. It sounded like the answer to a question.
CHAPTER 17
Drake punched the dashboard radio to summon up a rock station. Something hard and driving to blow away the blues that had descended. There was nothing. All of it sounded boring and predictable. He wound up leaving it on a phone-in show where a caller was berating the host on the subject of the world having gone to hell.
‘This is a case of the hens coming home to roost, or however the saying goes, okay? I mean, for the last fifteen years we’ve been getting involved in other countries’ problems overseas. Am I right? Now, you can’t do that without some kind of blowback.’
The host wasn’t having it. ‘Sorry, John, but what exactly does that have to do with people being stoned to death on building sites in London?’
‘It’s obvious, innit?’
‘Well, John, I’m actually saying it isn’t all that obvious. Why don’t you explain?’
‘The level of sheer savagery around the world. That’s what I’m saying. This kind of thing has been going on
for years over there. Now it’s come back here.’
‘Right, John, well, I’m not sure we all agree with you, but if you have an opinion we’d love to hear from you, so call in on oh eight seven…’
Drake had stopped listening long before he reached for the switch to flip the radio off. Already he felt as though this case was dragging him back, asking him to question his past, things he thought he was done with.
His reasons for joining the army had always been confusing to him. On the one hand, he wasn’t sure he believed in the logic of invading Iraq. If he’d had any doubts they were certainly cleared up when he saw the situation on the ground. By the time he arrived the country was on the verge of a sectarian war between Sunni and Shia.
From the age of fifteen he had believed that Islam offered him a place to belong. In time he began to see that what he was learning about had more to do with the egotistical needs of the people whose sermons he listened to than to any pure ideal.
Then 7/7 happened.
In July 2005, Cal woke up and realized that he could no longer defend his radicalization. Joining the army seemed a logical step, a way of reclaiming his birthright. What more proof could you ask for than laying your life on the line?
Some nights he still woke up with the stench of burning flesh in his nostrils. He saw things, heard the screams as his mates died. He remembered a young boy lying on the ground, mortally wounded by shrapnel, his guts raw and sprinkled with earth. There was no justice in war. A lie sold by dishonest men who had no honour to defend.
