The other bodyguard, Alimi Akeel, had only been picked up on CCTV for a few moments, but we went to talk to him as well. He was not at home and the small, frightened woman who answered the door told us, in broken English, she didn’t know where he was or when he was expected home. I put out a call asking for a lookout to be kept for him, and to be informed if he was seen. But at least we had one name to check out.
*
Back in the car I radioed the Branch office and requested an address for a Qais Jaser, nationality unknown, believed to be living somewhere in the Islington area. Ten seconds later they returned my call.
“We’ve got him on file, Rob. You ready?”
“Yeah, shoot.”
“Qais Jaser, forty-eight, a Yemeni national, resident here since entering the country as a student in the late eighties. Lives in Aberdeen Park, just off Highbury Grove. Handy for the Arsenal ground. No police record. He’s a political animal, though.” He paused for a moment. “You ready for this one?”
“Ready for what?”
“He’s a policy wonk, works in an MP’s private office.”
“I know. Christian Perkins.”
“Yeah, that’s right, Christian Perkins. Influential Tory backbench MP, chair of the Intelligence and Security Committee, unofficially represents MI5 in Parliament, got the ear of members of the cabinet. Things like that.”
It bothered me. What would a member of Christian Perkins’ staff be doing outside Khaled al-Ebouli’s meeting? Why would he be conferring with al-Ebouli’s bodyguard? Was he there in a private capacity or doing something for someone?
“You still there, Rob?”
“Just thinking about something. Yeah, go on.”
“Jaser’s not working for Perkins at the moment, though. He’s on secondment.”
“Where?”
“He’s James Blatchford’s election campaign guru. You know who he is?”
It’d been all but impossible to ignore the name James Blatchford in recent times. I’d seen him with Debbie Frost in the House recently. “Yeah. He’s the Tory candidate for Mayor of London. Strong favourite as well.”
“Correct, though he’s the independent Conservative candidate, not the official candidate, running for the mayoralty of our fine city. Qais Jaser’s his campaign manager. Doing a good job. He’s putting Blatchford all over the place, and Blatchford is in with a good chance of becoming Mayor, if you believe the opinion polls.”
Blatchford had been a member of the London Assembly, representing the Conservatives in an affluent part of North London, but had recently resigned from the party to run for Mayor of London as an independent Tory after the party had refused to endorse his candidacy. It had been controversial at the time between Blatchford and the ruling Tory clique in City Hall, but all was now seemingly sweetness and light. If Christian Perkins had seconded one of his aides to help Blatchford’s campaign, this surely meant leading figures in the party didn’t hold his defection against him.
“Where’s Jaser now?”
“God knows. There’s an election campaign going on, isn’t there, so he’s somewhere in London. Try their HQ.”
“Alright. Thanks.” I rang off.
*
I obtained details of the Blatchford for Mayor campaign from its head office, based in Kentish Town. The candidate was out campaigning in Camden Town this morning and due to be speaking at a lunchtime rally by the entrance to the market, which was going to feature on London News later this evening. The woman I spoke to also told me Qais Jaser was likely to be with James Blatchford; he’d be keeping the media up to speed with any changing priorities and developments on the campaign trail.
Roberts and I drove the mile or so across London to Camden Town and parked on yellow lines on the High Street. The campaign trail was easy to find. I spotted Blatchford doing a meet and greet, walking along and introducing himself to potential voters as they did their shopping, asking for their support. Some spoke to him, a few shook his hand, but most people ignored him. A few youthful supporters were handing out leaflets, most of which either went into a bin or were dropped on the floor. There were a few uninter- ested-looking photographers and journalists standing around nearby.
We watched democracy in action from the other side of the road for several minutes. I could see Qais Jaser, in a dark grey suit and pale blue shirt, hovering behind the candidate and talking to a journalist whilst, at the same time, looking intently at his tablet. He was quite short, maybe five foot six, with a mane of thick black hair and a prominent black moustache.
A few moments later he separated himself from the ruck, stood back and lit a cigarette. Roberts and I walked across the road. He looked nonchalant as we approached him.
“I hope you don’t do that around children,” I said lightly. He looked between us both. “Do I know you two gentlemen?” He put on his best plastic for the press smile. “You’re not with the media, are you?”
“No, Special Branch.” I showed ID. “We need to talk with you.”
“Concerning?” He stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette on top of a waste bin.
“Concerning the death of a young police officer last night,” I replied.
“How does that concern me?” He looked curious.
“You want to talk here, in front of the media,” I said, with a pointed glance at the media hacks surrounding the candidate, “or someplace else?”
He was trying not to appear worried about the presence of police but, as there were several journalists nearby, he couldn’t risk being led away. He nodded towards a quiet spot along the road and walked away. We followed. He lit another cigarette.
“You were seen outside last night’s meeting where it occurred, talking to one of Khaled al-Ebouli’s bodyguards,” I said. “Also, two other people you were seen talking to, both of whom had their faces covered, were seen in the crowd approaching the police line, just before a scuffle occurs and a police officer’s stabbed and dies.” I stated this calmly and officially. Jaser’s eyes opened wide in surprise. “We think one of those is our killer.”
“Yes, I was at the meeting, but I didn’t kill anyone. What’s the problem here?”
“The police officer who died was also present at al-Ebouli’s last public meeting, the one where a bodyguard got shot a couple of nights back. The man you were speaking to was that same bodyguard. Soon after these guys are seen looking at the officer and approaching him, he gets stabbed.”
“Am I being accused of something?”
“Who were the guys you were talking to with scarves around their faces?” Roberts asked.
“I don’t know. They just came up to me and we got talking.”
“About what?” I was sceptical.
“About what was going on, who the speaker was inside the hall, did I think the police would be able to prevent the counter-demonstrators clashing with those attending the meeting, just things like that.”
“You didn’t think having their faces covered was suspicious?”
“No, why should I?” he retorted. “There were lots of people with faces covered, including many of those the other side of the road.”
“They’re not suspected of killing a police officer. These two jokers are,” I stated firmly.
“What about the other person you were with?” Roberts asked.
“Jamal. I was with Jamal Khoudri.” I noted the name. “He’s the other campaign organiser. Are we being accused of something?”
“Where’s Jamal now?”
He glanced at his watch. “At this moment, I don’t know. He could be talking to the media, sweet-talking a journalist who’s been giving us a hard time, arranging for a hall to be used for a meeting, organising getting literature printed. The usual things campaign management involves. There’s no set routine during elections.”
“Find out where he is; we need to talk to him,” I said firmly.
Jaser took out his mobile and made a call. As he was speaking I was aware of a woman in the pack of journalists loo
king quizzically at Roberts and me. She watched for a few moments, then approached as we were talking to Jaser.
“He’s in our campaign office, just along the road from here,” Jaser said, giving us the address. “He’s likely to be there all morning at least.”
“Excuse me, can I ask who you two gentlemen are?”
I turned and saw the journalist: an attractive young woman, maybe mid-to-late twenties, with a lot of gorgeous straw-coloured hair. She was wearing jeans and a pale blue jacket over what appeared to be a man’s white shirt, and held a mini recording device in her hand.
“Yeah, you can ask,” Roberts said, turning his back on her. “You’re not with the Blatchford campaign, are you? I’ve not seen you before.”
“Why d’you need to know that?” I asked politely, trying to compensate for Roberts’ abruptness as he covered her handheld tape recorder, indicating any replies were not for broadcasting. She switched it off.
“I’m Sally Taylor, covering Blatchford’s campaign for the London Evening Standard.” She pointed to the lanyard marked Press around her neck. “I’ve been with the campaign a few weeks and you two don’t look familiar.” She was looking mainly at me.
“We’re offering our services as canvassers.” Roberts grinned at her.
She moved her glance from me to Roberts. A look of recognition spread across her face.
“You look familiar, though.” She looked at Roberts thoughtfully for a moment, then nodded slightly. “That’s where I know you from. You’re with the local police, you’re a detective. I thought you looked familiar,” she said confidently. “So you must be a detective as well,” she added, turning back to me. “Why are police interested in Blatchford’s run for Mayor?”
“Advising on security,” Roberts replied. “Giving him a few tips about his next meeting and the reception he might be facing.”
“Really?” She looked and sounded unconvinced.
“Seriously, that’s what we’re doing,” I said with a smile. “After what happened last night, that young police officer being killed at that rally, the safety of all candidates in this election is being assessed.”
“I don’t believe it. You’re not here for that.” So cynical for one so young.
“No, it’s true, Sally,” Qais Jaser intervened reassuringly. “They’ve come to tell us about a threat that’s been made against James, and we’re taking it seriously. After what happened last night, safety is paramount.”
Sally Taylor still looked sceptical, but she evidently knew Qais Jaser and was more ready to believe his word than ours. For the moment, she nodded her agreement and walked back to join her colleagues, looking back once and smiling at me before she joined in with the media throng.
“I know her. She’ll keep asking questions about why you two are really here,” Jaser said quietly as he watched her walking away. He sounded nervous.
“Shows she knows how to do her job, then, doesn’t it? Anyway, who was it who said, If you can’t stand the heat . . .?”
I didn’t finish the sentence. We left Jaser to his campaigning and his fraying nerves.
*
I parked in the almost empty car park outside the hall from where the Blatchford campaign was being masterminded, the HQ of the local Boy Scouts. The hall was set back off the road, on the edge of the Kentish Town industrial estate, which didn’t afford the most glamorous of backdrops. The campaign HQ was easily recognisable as the outside walls had been plastered with colourful posters advertising James Blatchford’s campaign and trumpeting his running for Mayor. There were smiling mugshots of the candidate alongside some colourful posters advertising a public meeting in the hall this very evening.
The front door was unlocked, so we entered. We proceeded through a narrow passageway, and past a small room where coats could be hung, into the main section. The hall was rectangular, about sixty yards in length and about half as wide. The fluorescent strip lighting was on. There were trestle tables set up against the wall with campaign literature, posters and booklets piled high, and a series of what looked like uncomfortable collapsible wooden seats arranged in rows in front of a makeshift stage. There was a large picture of Blatchford on the wall behind the stage, in case we’d forgotten who he was, next to a large Union Jack.
I called Khoudri’s name. No answer. At the far end of the hall, to the left of the stage, I could see an open door. Nobody in the hall; he must be in there.
The door, marked Offices, led into a narrow corridor about twenty yards long. I could see a large green sign reading Exit at the far end. There were four doors, two either side, plus another door marked ‘toilet’ near the exit door on the left. The first door on my right was slightly ajar and the light was on.
I called Jamal Khoudri’s name again, identifying myself as a police officer, but heard only a short echo in reply. I waited a moment, then knocked and pushed the door open. Nobody in the room. I could see further piles of election literature on the desk and posters on all the walls. There was an open laptop on the desk showing BBC news headlines, plus an opened can of Lilt and some biscuit crumbs. From the window behind the desk I could see what appeared to be a car park behind the hall. I was about to turn around when I noticed a jacket hanging on the chair behind the desk. Thinking he might be in the toilet, I went into the corridor and called Khoudri’s name again. No answer.
I couldn’t explain why but something didn’t feel right. There was something wrong with this picture. My every instinct as a police officer told me to look around.
I looked in the small toilet and, in the corner, by an open cubicle, I saw a body lying face downwards on the floor.
I turned the body over. I recognised the face as the man who’d been standing alongside Jaser last night. There was a dark bloodstain on the front of the man’s blue shirt, just above the heart. It was futile but I still checked for a nonexistent pulse. I yelled out for Roberts to call for backup.
*
Khoudri had been shot at almost point-blank range. One of the medics estimated he’d been dead no more than thirty to forty minutes when I’d found his body.
Qais Jaser had said Khoudri was at campaign HQ after making a call to the office. The woman who’d told him, the assistant campaign coordinator Pam Lovett, had left the office to take some election material to a nearby printer’s, and she told us through her tears that, so far as she knew, Khoudri had not been expecting any visitors, and had no appointments till mid-afternoon. But she did say the hall was usually bustling with activity – canvassers, media, and so on – and it was rare for it to be completely empty at this time of day.
Khoudri being shot whilst alone in the hall suggested someone was watching the hall and saw Pam Lovett leave, or else knew when Khoudri was going to be alone. The exit door at the end of the corridor was unlocked. Whoever’d shot Khoudri had left the hall this way.
Uniforms canvassed the vicinity but, in a busy area and at this time of day, nobody could be found who’d seen anything or anyone acting suspiciously, and nobody’d heard anything sounding remotely like a gunshot. I suspected a silencer had been used. It had been a clever kill. The Scout hall itself would have had people going in and out all day, it was an election campaign office, so anyone seen entering or leaving the premises wouldn’t arouse any suspicion.
*
I was attempting to make connections between the events of the past few days. Someone had taken potshots at Khaled al-Ebouli, and last night a young police officer, who’d been on duty when those potshots had happened, had been stabbed to death outside a public meeting where al-Ebouli was speaking. Both Qais Jaser and Jamal Khoudri had been seen in the vicinity of the stabbing, and now Khoudri had been shot and killed.
Jaser and Khoudri were political activists. Jaser worked for an influential, well-connected Conservative MP doing whatever, though he was temporarily aligned with an independent Conservative candidate, running against an official Conservative candidate. I wondered whether Khoudri had been employed doing something si
milar. But I was curious why they were outside a public meeting being held by an Islamic fundamentalist, a man publically calling for a jihad against the West and its values. Were they there in an official capacity or as interested observers? If officially, on whose behalf? Both men were attached to James Blatchford’s run for the mayoralty. And, just to add to my confusion, Phil Gant was back in the country.
As I was wondering whether any of these events were connected, a car hurriedly pulled up next to the ambulance parked across the car park. It was Qais Jaser, in response to Pam Lovett’s call to him. He got out and walked towards the hall, looking dazed. Police on the door refused to let him in, stating this was now a crime scene, and the blue and white ‘crime scene’ tape being put up around the hall should have told him something. Jaser saw me approaching him and looked bemused.
“Is it true? Jamal is really dead?” His eyes were wide open as he spoke, almost as in a state of disbelief.
“Yeah. We found him ten minutes ago. Sorry for your loss,” I said.
He closed his eyes for a few moments and took a few deep
breaths to steady himself. He started to cry, took a tissue from his trouser pocket and dabbed his eyes lightly.
“Thanks,” he managed through a sniff. “How did he die?” He was trying not to sound choked.
“Shot at close range, probably from no more than three, four yards.”
Jaser closed his eyes, grimaced and took a deep breath.
“I apologise if this sounds insensitive at this time,” I said, “but I think it’s a fair guess he knew whoever it was shot him.”
“Huh? Why would you think this?” He was evidently surprised.
“Because it was up close. You don’t usually let people get that close to you unless you know them and are comfortable around them. There’s no sign of any struggle, no bruising on his face, no torn clothing, and the room hasn’t been turned over. Khoudri obviously knew this person.”
“Oh, dear God, why would anyone want to kill Jamal?” His voice had risen in intensity.
“That’s what we’re gonna try to find out. First, though, I need to ask a few questions, if you feel up to it.”
The Rules Page 9
