Lasting Scars

by Lenny Brando

  Marks nodded in return. “Hassan’s in room four. You ready?”

  “Could do with a coffee first, if that’s all right Inspector? It’s awful early. Only got about six hours kip. I like eight.”

  Marks considered an objection, but Gilmore had a point. It was too damn early, so he waved a hand. “Get your coffee. Hassan can wait. I think he wants to talk.”

  “Yeah?”

  “He’s all bluster now. He’ll blow off a little steam, then he’ll talk.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Marks and Gilmore went through the interview procedure in room four under the sullen yet watchful gaze of Samir Hassan.

  Marks eyed Hassan up with all the scorn he could muster. “How are you this fine morning, Samir? They treating you all right?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Very well then. Tell me about the...” Marks consulted his notes. “... the Grange Michael Productions wrap party last year.”

  Hassan curled his mouth and rattled the cuffs that bound his hands to the rings in the table. “Bad people. Alcohol. Drugs. Girls.”

  “Oh yeah? Fancy some for yourself?”

  “No. It is haram.”

  “Girls? You like them, don’t you?”

  Hassan shrugged.

  “Oh, I get it.” Marks winked at him. “You like boys, huh?”

  A flash of anger crossed Hassan’s face. “No. I don't.”

  “So, you like girls then?”

  Hassan nodded.

  “Good. What about the alcohol? Were your drinking at the wrap party last year?”

  “It is haram.”

  “I don’t care about haram. Were you drinking alcohol? Yes or no?”

  “No.”

  “All right, Samir. I know you're lying. We have witnesses who say you were drunk at the party.”

  “Alcohol is haram.”

  “We spoke to your sister. She says you don’t go to the mosque. She says you drink alcohol. That you are not a devout Muslim.” Marks jabbed a finger at him. “You know what else she says? Huh?”

  “No.”

  “She’s says you’re too stupid to be a jihadi.”

  Hassan shrank back in the chair and looked down at his hands. “She is liar.”

  “No, Samir. You're the liar. We can prove it too.” Marks flipped through some sheets and took out the police photograph of Alice. He pushed it across the table. “Remember her? What’s her name?”

  “I tell you before. Is Zain Aboudan.”

  “How do you spell that?”

  Marks made a sucking noise through his teeth as he watched Gilmore record the spelling.

  “Are you sure that’s her name?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you try to kiss her at the party last year?”

  “No.”

  “Why did you send an apology then?”

  “Apology?”

  “She said you sent her an apology.”

  Hassan pretended to spit on the ground. “Woman is half a man. I don’t apologise to woman. She is liar. All liars.”

  “All right then. What about the men that were there that night? Did they hit you?”

  “Filthy kafirs. They beat me. Call me names. They insult the Prophet.” He yanked at the handcuffs several times as if to free himself, then he threw a furious look at Marks.

  Marks smiled at him. “Did this girl call you names too? Call you a stupid Arab? A useless man?”

  “I am not stupid.”

  Marks shook his head. “Enough of this, Samir. Come on. This crap ends now. We know what happened. This girl here...” He indicated the photograph of Alice. “Is not a jihadi. She is not a Muslim. And you, Samir? Well, either you tried to kiss her or you like boys. Which is it?” He felt Gilmore nudge his leg beneath the table as if he stepped over some interview protocol, but Marks ignored it and never took his eyes off Hassan. “Did they laugh at you? They did, didn't they? They laughed at you, and you couldn't take it. The girl rejected your advances and insulted you. And it took you a year and a load of drugs to work up the courage to take revenge.”

  Hassan stared back, but the earlier defiance looked to have eased, and Marks pressed on. “Why are you implicating this woman? What’s her name, Samir? Zain Aboudan or Abeedah Zainab? Which is it? Huh? Well?”

  Hassan said nothing. Marks pulled out more photographs and laid them on the table. These were images of the broken bodies from the attack and Hassan blinked at them. “Go on, Samir,” Marks said. “Have a good look. These were ordinary people. What they ever do to you?”

  Hassan dropped his eyes and took a deep breath though his nose that made a whistling sound.

  Marks pushed a gruesome image closer. “What did this girl do to deserve this? You want to know her name?”

  Hassan shook his head.

  “Look at her, Samir. Look.” Marks’ voice rose. “Leslie Keys. She was 22 years old.”

  “No.”

  “No what, Samir? You afraid to look?”

  His eyes swivelled to the photograph but didn’t linger. His shoulders slumped and he looked down. “I want Imam.”

  “Okay. But first, tell me about Leslie. What did she do to you?”

  “Imam.”

  Marks wanted to grin, but his years of experience held strong, and he maintained his most intimidating stare. “How does this serve Allah?”

  Hassan shook his head. “I want Imam.”

  “If I get you the Imam, will you help us? Tell us everything?”

  Hassan nodded. “Yes. Yes. Get Imam.”

  *

  It took Marks almost two hours to locate a suitable Iman. Then the guy spent over an hour with Hassan. “This better work,” Marks said to Gilmore. “For all I know they could be plotting another attack in there.”

  “He’s ready to crack, Inspector. He wants to talk. Perhaps the cleric will bring him over the last hurdle.”

  “Yeah.”

  Ten minutes later, the Imam put his head out the interview room door and beckoned.

  Gilmore set up the recording and resumed the interview with the Imam looking sombre in the chair beside Hassan.

  “Are you ready to talk to us Samir?” Marks asked.

  Hassan nodded. “Yes.”

  “First thing, did Alice Madsen help you?”

  “No.”

  “Is Alice Madsen a terrorist?”

  “No.”

  *

  Marks ran his eye over the sheets of paper Gilmore had laid out on the meeting room table. As Marks read, he took a sip from the coffee he’d collected on the way. A bitter after taste lingered in his mouth, and he regarded the plastic cup with a baleful stare.

  Gilmore laughed. “Shit, isn’t it?”

  Marks grunted and set the coffee aside. “Right. Let’s get this damn Madsen thing sorted. I want you to call Dee Stansfield and confirm Madsen’s story. Ask her if Hassan was drinking alcohol and whether he made advances on Madsen. And if so, how did Madsen and Hassan react.”

  “Will do. Do you want to get a brief for Madsen? You spoke to him on the phone at her house, right?”

  Marks twirled a pen between his fingers. “Yeah. In a while. We’re not letting Madsen go until we get confirmation from Stansfield, but I’ll allow Madsen a phone call. She can get her own damn brief.”

  “What about the boyfriend, Ian Morgan?”

  “Pfft. He’s a nobody. Forget about him.”

  “You know Inspector, Hassan may not be a real Islamic terrorist. He’s just an evil nut job looking to pin his murderous nature on a twisted ideology. Supposing his motivation was revenge on the people who he thought humiliated him? The festival gave him something to target. Something specific.”

  “What difference does it make? His choice of location may have been influenced by the festival, but he killed five people, seriously injured a lot more, all while shouting Islamic slogans.” He stopped and wagged a finger at Gilmore. “Samir Hassan is an Islamic terrorist. He insisted on an Imam rather than a lawyer. His inconsistent bullshit is ju
st that. Bullshit.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll go chase up Stansfield.”

  Marks picked up the coffee and sniffed at it. “Christ. I can't drink this stuff. I’m going out to get a real one.”

  27

  Around lunch time on Sunday, Alice sat with her right hand cuffed to the ring in the table. It was as tight as before, a deliberate reminder of her prisoner status and how little control she had over the situation. She stared at the walls to keep her mind from focusing on negatives. She imagined herself in her shower at home, washing away the stains of her incarceration and emerging from her bathroom purified and cleansed. The thoughts of washing made her more conscious of her grimy tee shirt, and she squirmed in the chair as she thought of clean underwear.

  The sound of the door opening made her look up, and a man entered. At first, she’d didn't recognise him, but there was a familiarity about him. He plonked a briefcase on the table and smiled at her.

  “I’m Malcolm Rix. I’m your lawyer, Ian called me. We met at dinner last year. I’m a friend of Olivia Kelly.”

  “Um, hi.” She pulled at the cuffs to take his offered hand, but as she did, her wrist grazed against the metal. She glanced down and saw her hand was pale, and she had pins and needles in her fingertips. “Do you think you could ask them to remove this? It hurts.”

  Rix waved his hands towards a camera and a minute later, the door opened. The Scottish officer poked her head in.

  “Remove her hand cuffs please. They’re far too tight.”

  “But...”

  “Then get DI Marks.”

  “Ach. All right.” She unlocked the cuffs and left the room with them, closing the door with as much noise as she could.

  Alice rubbed her wrists and watched Rix run his hand over the black boxes on the table. “Recording equipment,” he said. “It’s supposed to be off, but...”

  He took a chair from the opposite side of the table, sat beside her and took papers from his case. He laid a notepad out and adjusted it. “How are they treating you?”

  Alice shrugged. “All right. They think I helped kill those people. Samir must have said that to them. Because nothing else makes sense. Samir came on to me at a party last year and I brushed him off. I didn't see him again until Friday, you know, when he drove by the Provence.”

  Rix nodded. “I think I can see what’s happened here.” He studied her for a moment, “Are you all right otherwise?”

  Alice took a deep breath and exhaled. “I’m just about keeping it together.”

  “All right. Give me all the details about the last time you met Samir Hassan.”

  She told Rix about the wrap party, including the details and names she had given to Marks. While she spoke, Rix made notes and asked several clarifying questions.

  When she finished, Rix clicked his pen and furrowed his brow. “The fact they’ve allowed you to see me is a good sign. Will Dee Stansfield support your story?”

  “I hope so. It's the truth.”

  “Okay then. I’ll do the talking when they come in.” He beckoned at the camera without looking. “Let’s see what they’ve got.”

  Within minutes, Marks and Gilmore entered. They sat opposite, and Gilmore pressed buttons on the boxes by the wall.

  “Interview with DI Colin Marks and DS Barry Gilmore from the National Counter Terrorism Security Office and Alice Madsen, with legal representative Malcolm Rix in the matter of the investigation into the events in Exhibition Road, South Kensington, on Friday July 21st.”

  “Right,” Rix said. “Let’s begin. What evidence have you got against my client?”

  Marks scratched the back of his neck and looked at Alice. “Dee Stansfield confirmed the events at the wrap party as you described them.” He cleared his throat. “We received information that suggested you played a part in planning the attack with Samir Hassan, and it turns out that information may not have been accurate.”

  “Great,” Rix said. “Then you’ve no reason to hold my client.”

  Marks sounded disappointed when he replied, “Should we release her, I’m uncertain whether to release under investigation or on police bail.”

  Rix waved a finger at Marks. “No way Inspector. You’ve nothing on my client. She’s a victim here.”

  “Bail?” Alice asked. “What does that mean?”

  Marks glared and Rix put his hand down. “Come now, Inspector. I would imagine Hassan implicated Alice. Then in the light of the witnesses corroborating the...” He paused and emphasised the next words, “...fact Hassan made unwanted advances on Alice, he either withdrew his statement, or you have discredited his accusation. Releasing Alice on bail or under investigation would be unwarranted and wrong. The only reason you would do so would be to add a further layer of justification to her arrest. One, I might add, that is unnecessary. Do the right thing. Release her immediately.”

  Marks nodded and Alice leaned forward, but her hopes foundered on Mark’s stern expression and his defiant “No.”

  28

  A sympathetic nurse led Cole to bed four in the ICU. “He’s in a coma, but he’s getting great care.”

  “When will he wake up?” Cole asked.

  “The consultant hopes he’ll come around in a few days. But there are no guarantees. It could be longer.”

  “But he’s gonna be okay? Yeah?”

  “I hope so. Here we are. I’ll leave you to him.”

  The hairs on Cole’s neck rose at the sight. Daz lay on his back, propped up by pillows. It was difficult to see his face beneath the bandaged head and the breathing mask over his mouth. More tubes and wires ran from his arms. Machines beeped. ECG graphs and numbers fluctuated on several screens. A small radio played at a low volume beside the bed.

  “All right, Daz?” He half expected Daz to respond. To smile. Or flutter an eyelid. But other than the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, Daz didn't move. Cole pulled a chair close and sat. Then he leaned in further. “Went to see the emergency doctor this morning. Gave me a sick note for two weeks. A free shrink and all. Not that I need one. You know what I mean?”

  Cole glanced around to ensure no-one listened. “I rang the boss in work. He told me to take all the sick I needed, even if it’s more than the two weeks. I said sure. Wasn't gonna turn that down. Said I’d keep checking the call system, you know, in case they’re stuck for someone to go out on a call. Said I’d do it if I was up for it. Boss agreed that if it happened, he’d pay overtime. What do you think of that, eh?”

  Daz’s right hand had no tubes or wires, and Cole took it in his own. It was cold to touch. He let go and looked about again. “Where do they keep all the good gear, Daz? Keep your eyes open and let me know, huh?”

  Cole shook his head. “This is weird, mate. Like talking to a statue or something.” He willed Daz to open his eyes or to give a sign he could hear. Cole sat in silence for a few moments. He didn't know what to say. Yet he thought it would be wrong to just leave. “Hey, seeing as you can't say anything, I guess I can do what I want. You can't stop me now. What did you call yourself? The voice of reason, eh? Bit quiet now that voice, innit? Well mate, see I’m gonna look after your interests outside. Remember that blonde outside the Provence? The one what dissed us? Turns out she helped the Arab. The old bill arrested her. Been winding her up on Twitter.”

  Again, Cole leaned close to Daz’s ear and spoke in a low voice. “Gonna scare her real good. And if the old bill let her go, I’m gonna pay her a visit. What do you think, eh? Tell you what, Daz? You say no, and I won't do it.”

  Cole leaned back and looked for any sign Daz might have understood. Nothing. He glanced at the machines and their displays, but the numbers meant nothing to him. Then Cole’s eyes widened. He stared at Daz. “Hey,” he called out loud. “Nurse. He moved. I think he’s waking up.”

  The nurse hurried towards to the bed. She checked the equipment. After she pulled on Daz’s eyelid and shone a light into his eye, she shook her head.

  “What?” Cole said. “He moved
. I think he tried to say something.”

  “They twitch sometimes, love. Sorry. It’s normal.”

  “But he’s gonna get better, right? He understood me. I know he did.”

  The nurse patted him on the arm. “Maybe he did.”

  Cole blinked several times. He took a deep breath and tried to relax his shoulders. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Or the next day. Will you phone me if there’s any news?”

  “Of course,” the nurse said. “But remember, no news is good news.”

  As he walked down the corridor from the ICU, Cole kept his head low and fought back tears. He paused in a quiet corner of the stairwell for several minutes. He took a deep breath, narrowed his eyes and raised his head. Then he strode from the hospital wearing a look of fierce determination.

  29

  Alice sat in her cell, pushing inedible food around her plate. Rix had told her to be patient and that he would continue to work on her behalf. He had reason to suspect Marks wanted to save face, and that after a time, they would release her.

  She grew tired of staring at the walls, shoved the plate aside and trudged around the small cell. Time passed. The cell grew hotter and she pulled at her tee shirt where it clung to her skin. Then the door swung open and Alice stepped back into the far corner. The Scottish officer strode into the room, alone.

  Alice glanced at the officer’s hands. “What? No handcuffs?”

  “Come with me,” she growled. Her surly look never wavered, as if someone had etched it on her face or she’d forgotten how to smile.

  The officer steered Alice along the corridor to an interview room, where she left Alice alone with Rix. Rix got to his feet as she entered. He cut straight to the point. “The good news is they’ve agreed to let you go. No bail. No conditions. It’s over. Ian’s waiting outside to take you home.”

  Alice sighed. “They stole a piece of my life. Any chance of getting it back?”