by Simon Hall
That image of languishing in a pit, looking up helplessly at the two spies returned. Time and again. Burned itself into his brain.
A man was shaking a bucket, collecting money for the restoration of the Minster. He nodded appreciatively. ‘Good reports you did on it. Who’d have thought it, eh?’
Dan managed an unconvincing smile. A bus rumbled past, greying the air with a cloud of diesel fumes. A pigeon landed on a bench and pecked contentedly at the remnants of some discarded sandwiches. Dan could taste the exhaust smoke in his throat. He started coughing. A clock in a shop window said it was coming up to four.
Two hours until he needed to get ready for tonight’s broadcast. And there was a pub on Minster Green.
The trudge turned to a stride.
The first pint helped him realise. He should have seen it coming. Sierra and Oscar indeed. The phonetic alphabet.
S O. Or, in more common parlance, sod off.
They’d told him what they really thought from the start and he’d missed it. They wanted whatever information he could provide, and he’d fallen for it. And then they’d discarded him, just like that.
He’d been as easy as a light switch. Click on or off, with only the twitch of a finger.
The dark liquid suddenly tasted sour. Dan pushed the glass away, leaned back on the wooden chair and tried to stretch his aching back.
And where the hell did they get all that information on him?
Adam called just as Dan was about to walk into the pub and did his best to soothe his friend.
‘You’d be amazed who they’ve got files on,’ the detective said. ‘They’ve no doubt got one on me, and all the other senior cops in the force. Loads of people come to their attention in some way. It was probably what you said to that recruiter at university that started them off at you. They don’t forget easily. Did you really say that?’
‘Yeah. But I was younger then. Cockier.’
‘Well, younger, certainly. Listen, don’t worry too much about it. They’re bound to have been watching the mosque. As for the rest of the stuff, it wouldn’t take much research to find out your involvement in the other cases. The remainder of it they’ve probably just made up. A bluff, that’s all. To put you off your stride.’
‘Well it’s bloody worked.’
Dan realised he kept looking over his shoulder. There were a handful of other committed drinkers in the pub. Any one of them could be watching him. None looked remotely like a spy. But then, that was how a spy should look.
He shook himself. There was enough going on in his life without paranoia joining the already impressive procession of concerns.
‘Listen, I’ve got to back to the investigation,’ Adam said. ‘But what they did in there – just be aware that I was no part of it and I didn’t care for it. In fact, we had words about it afterwards.’
‘What did they say?’
‘They said wars mean people getting hurt.’
‘Nice.’
‘Yeah.’
The phone line clicked, then Adam said, ‘Just because you’re not officially involved in the case doesn’t mean I won’t be in touch. I still think you could help us.’
‘Thanks,’ Dan managed weakly.
Workmen had already erected scaffolding on the Minster’s façade and were carefully checking the stonework around the shattered window. Dan watched as he sipped at his pint. It had depleted remarkably quickly. Perhaps it was the sunshine, making it evaporate. Still, there was time for another before the broadcast.
The woman behind the bar had earrings just like Claire’s. Silver studs embedded with tiny diamonds. Dan’s gaze fixed upon the flashing darts of shooting light as she pulled the pint.
He felt his eyes starting to sting, blinked hard and took a long swig of beer. When the broadcast was over, he would drive straight back to the flat, give Rutherford a big cuddle, then take him out for a good walk. Afterwards, Dan would lie out on his great blue sofa, listen to some music and try to unwind. He deserved it after this day.
A phone call from the newsroom interrupted his thoughts. It was Lizzie with her usual list of demands, but Dan hardly noticed. He heard himself reassuring her that yes, lunchtime’s report would be fine to use tonight, yes, the live interview would be good, no there had been no significant developments, and yes, of course he would find a follow-up on the story for tomorrow.
He hung up, laid down the phone, finished his pint and walked slowly outside.
There were always positives in any situation if you looked hard enough. It was just a question of finding them.
Dan lay back on the sofa, lifted a glass to the spooks and giggled to himself. Whisky was such a wonderful invention. It didn’t fill you up, or require such effort to drink in the way beer did, and it spread its soothing warmth through your mind so much more efficiently.
So – he was off the case. Well, so what? Who cared? It would give him more time to enjoy the lovely whisky. Instead of careering around with Adam and putting himself in danger, trying to catch terrorists, he could lay here in safety and drink.
It was a winner if ever he’d heard one.
Dan giggled again, reached down and ran a hand over Rutherford’s head. The dog let out a low whine of appreciation. He would lie here with his only true friend and his whisky, and Claire and bombing investigations and spooks could go chase each other in a pathetic little merry-go-round. What did it all matter in the end? Here it was safe and warm and no one bothered him with irritating talk of the need to find the people behind terrorist murders and outrages, and to get some justice for victims and their families, and to cover endless stories on it, and all of that junk.
Bollocks to the lot of it. Yeah!
Who needed it? You did your job as well as you could, and all you got was your editor on the phone demanding more. You volunteered to help the police on a big investigation, do your bit for society, so far above and beyond the call of duty that it was around the corner and out of sight, and you got it thrown back in your face. You gave a woman your fragile heart and she held it in her hand, promised to care for it always, then cast it down and ground it into the dirt with the heel of her boot.
Sod them. Sod them all. The whole bloody lot of them.
Today hadn’t been so bad after all. That broadcast at the Minster went well. Parfitt was a good interviewee, eloquently voicing sorrow for the attack and a determination the damage would be put right as soon as possible. But it was what he’d said when the camera was turned off that was by far the most interesting. He was no fan of Islam, that was clear.
‘A dangerous religion. Despite what they say, it is dedicated to taking over the world, you know,’ he had confided, quietly. ‘Whether it’s the fanatics who want to do it with the bomb or the gun, or the moderates relentlessly spreading their teachings, the ultimate aim is the same. To make the world a caliphate, an Islamic state. We have a proud history of Christianity in this country and we should defend it robustly. Britain needs a wake-up call. We are sleepwalking towards becoming a Muslim state otherwise.’
Dan couldn’t help his instincts activating.
‘I meant to ask,’ he said, as casually as he could. ‘Where were you when the bomb went off? Did you see it?’
‘No,’ Parfitt replied sombrely. ‘I suppose I was lucky. It was hard enough to bear, seeing the aftermath. I was over in the shopping centre, buying a gift for a long-serving volunteer who’s retiring next week. A tedious chore, but someone has to do it.’
So, Reverend Parfitt was in Exeter city centre when the bomb exploded, and he was a strong critic of Islam. And Adam said earlier that he had detectives checking the Minster’s CCTV and visitor register, to see if Tanton had carried out any reconnaissance of his target before the attack, and if he had been seen with, or spoken to anyone.
Perhaps Parfitt and Tanton had met. And talked … and not for the first time.
Parfitt was a long shot for the radicaliser, surely. But, Dan thought, he would have to tell Adam about the m
an’s views. Experience of the cases he’d worked on had taught him early that the smallest of insights could take on the greatest of significance.
Or would he tell Adam? Hadn’t he just decided that all he would be doing was lying here on the sofa, with his beloved dog, drinking the bottled nectar that stood on the battered old coffee table? He was better off out of the world of investigations and spooks, terrorists and danger.
Yeah, bollocks to it.
At least Rutherford was happy. They’d been for a run around Hartley Park, twenty laps no less, the maximum Dan ever managed. He suspected he’d only achieved the target because of the promise of a whisky or two if he did.
It was important to set yourself meaningful goals in life.
The dog careered back and forth across the dewy grass, in an agony of dilemma about which of the scores of fascinating scents to sniff at first. The oak and lime trees of the park’s boundary, the wall around the underground reservoir, the fence guarding the children’s play area. Rutherford was a black blur of chaotic delight in the creeping twilight, leaving his zig-zag tracks on the moist grass.
For what felt like the first time in days, Dan burst out laughing.
They ran together, enjoying the stillness of the clear air and the emboldened silver stars emerging from their inky hide. Halfway through the run Dan stopped, found a stick and hurled it until his arm ached. The dog sprinted back and forth in heady pursuit.
Back at the flat, as a special treat for his loyal and wonderful friend, Dan gave Rutherford a good brush. The dog started emitting that strange low whine of delight as the ghosts of his discarded fur floated and flew.
And now it was coming up to twelve o’clock. The midnight clouds were streaming past the bay window and the glass on the table had emptied itself again. One more, just one, then it was time for bed. To sleep, and to forget.
So, it was decided. He was better off out of that realm of smoke and shadows. Dan wondered why he had ever found it so fascinating.
He picked up the whisky bottle and went to pour a sizable goodnight measure when his mobile rang.
He recognised the number, but could hardly make out the words on the line. They were too stifled by the sobs and gulps and whimpers.
Dan waited. Discerned a word or two. Then a few more.
It was Alison Tanton. And she seemed to be saying that her son was dead.
Chapter Ten
THE INTERVIEW ROOM WAS too comfortable. It was the antithesis of his favourite; Number Two in his home police station, Charles Cross in Plymouth – a low ceiling, a tiny, grimy and barred window, and dimly lit and permanently cold, even in the summer months. It was nigh guaranteed to make a suspect talk with the unspoken promise of escaping its oppressive presence. That was how an interview room should be.
This model had doubtless been designed by someone with the qualification PC after their name. The irritating influence of political correctness was shamelessly evident. It was new and modern, a clean and tiled floor, smart white walls, and even the chairs were annoyingly padded and comfortable. The windows were large, bright and clean, the early morning sunshine streaming in cheerfully.
The only thing missing was some nice floral prints on the wall. Perhaps one day it would come, Adam reflected, but hopefully not before he had been blessed with retirement. He turned the thermostat on the radiator up to maximum, stalked out of the room and returned carrying an old and battered wooden chair, a portable heater and bearing an expression of satisfaction.
Adam exchanged the comfortable chair on the opposite side of the table for the wooden version, closed the blinds, plugged in the heater and turned it too up to maximum.
Detective Sergeant Claire Reynolds raised an eyebrow.
‘It’s similar to your “Zero Option Protocol”, Adam explained. ‘What did you get that doctor to sign, by the way?’
‘One of those fascinating and indispensable Home Office Sexual Orientation and Racial Origins when subject to Stop and Search surveys. I folded it so he could only see the dotted line – told him the rest was national security stuff, too sensitive for him to see. So, what’s this interior decoration thing about?’
‘The spooks will be here in a minute with Ahmed. If they’re setting the rules of the game now, we might as well have some influence over the battleground.’
‘And what are the rules now, sir?’
‘We get to do the questioning, they sit back, observe, and chip in if they feel they need to.’
‘Politics?’
‘The best compromise we could manage. This is still a Greater Wessex police inquiry, on the face of it at least. Just carry on as you would normally.’
‘Interrogation by committee?’
‘No. They observe. We interrogate. When I bring up our little surprise I’ll hammer away at him for a bit, then you take over. But first, have a look at this.’
The sheet of paper was headed simply, “Ahmed Nazri,” and contained a briefing. He was in his late twenties, parents from Pakistan, but Ahmed himself was born and grew up in Birmingham. He went to a state school before going to university in London to read computer science. He’d graduated with an upper second class degree, had taken a job as a computer engineer back in Birmingham and lived a life of no interest whatsoever to the police until a couple of years ago.
Ahmed had disappeared; the only clue to his whereabouts was that immigration records showed he had taken a flight to Pakistan. The briefing suggested Ahmed may have studied at a madrassah, one of the more fundamentalist religious schools where he could have been indoctrinated in Islamic extremism.
He reappeared in Britain just under a year ago, in Plymouth, where he carried out consultant computer work. He had been tagged by Special Branch as mixing with a group of young Muslim men suspected of having radical views. They had been put under surveillance, but nothing was found to justify any arrests.
The men seemed content to rage about oppression, and discuss vague notions of making a statement against Britain and her western allies, but there was, the briefing said, “No substance to their talk”. They had been dismissed as classic angry young men, more hot air than action, and the attention of the security services had turned to the alarmingly large number of others deemed a sharper and more immediate threat.
‘All clear?’ Adam asked.
‘Yes, sir. Just one further question.’
‘Yes?’
Claire paused. ‘Is – err …’ she hesitated, before adding quickly, ‘Is Dan coming to join the questioning?’
‘No. The spooks don’t want him involved.’
Adam pushed the door closed. ‘Claire, it’s none of my business I know, but what’s happened between you? You both seemed so happy only a few months ago. And now …’
‘Has he said anything to you?’
The emotion in her voice made Adam hesitate. ‘No. It’s only that – when he came in to the station earlier he seemed more concerned about whether you’d be here than anything else.’
Claire swallowed hard. ‘I’d rather not talk about it, sir, if you don’t mind.’
Footsteps echoed along the corridor. Adam held her look, then leaned back against the wall. The door swung open and Oscar pushed Ahmed over to the wooden chair. He looked around and sat down. Sierra walked quickly in, shut the door, joined Oscar at the back of the room and nodded to Adam.
Ahmed glared at Claire. ‘I’m not talking to that whore again.’
‘Shut your mouth,’ Adam snapped. ‘We decide who interrogates you. If I want it done by a stripper it will be. Got that?’
‘Fuck you.’
A pointed cough cracked from the back of the room. Adam ignored it, said. ‘Right, now we’ve all got to know each other, let’s get down to talking about what happened in the Minster.’
Ahmed’s face warmed into a mocking grin. ‘The bombing? Nice one, eh?’
‘The killing of innocent people?’
‘They weren’t innocent. They pay their taxes for your government to spen
d on its little crusades.’
‘Is that what this is about? Revenge for Iraq and Afghanistan?’
Ahmed sat back on the chair, crossed his legs and ran a finger over a white trainer. ‘Dunno, mate. I was nothing to do with it. You’d have to ask whoever was. But that’d be my guess.’
‘You were nothing to do with it?’
‘Nothing.’
‘You know John Tanton.’
‘I know a lot of people.’
‘His mum said you were good friends.’
‘He was one of my mates.’
‘You went round to his house.’
‘I go round a lot of people’s houses.’
‘You spent time on his computer. Surfing the internet with him.’
Ahmed folded his arms. ‘Welcome to the 21st century, mate. It ain’t exactly radical to surf the net.’
‘What sites were you looking at?’
‘I dunno. It’s a while ago. Games. Bit of social networking. That kind of stuff.’
‘Jihadist websites? Holy war?’
‘Not that I can remember.’
‘We’ve checked John’s computer. He was looking at sites dedicated to Islamic extremism; bombing, terrorism and war on western society.’
‘Not with me. We just looked at fun things.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
There was a silence. Then Adam said quietly, ‘Do you know he’s dead?’
‘Who’s dead?’
‘Who do you think? Adolf Hitler? John Tanton.’
Ahmed shrugged. ‘Hardly surprising, is it? If you carry a bomb on your back and set it off it don’t tend to do you the world of good.’
‘Don’t you care?’
The man chewed at his lip and considered the question. ‘I’m a bit sad, I suppose.’
‘He was supposed to be your friend.’
‘We weren’t that matey. He was a good lad, but a bit of a kid. I didn’t mind hanging around with him sometimes, but that was it.’
‘There was quite an age gap between you.’
‘He was interested in Islam. I helped him find out about it.’
