“What the hell’s that?” I was bemused.
He grinned. “The thing is, I recognised the phrase.”
I was about to ask how, but he continued.
“There used to be some old guy in my branch of the Labour party, died from cancer a year or so ago. But he nearly always used to say this when he disagreed with someone at branch meetings, not always jokingly either. Said it to me more than once.” This seemed to amuse him.
“What’s it mean, then?”
“If I remember right, it’s an old Hebrew phrase, meaning something like, Oh, fuck you.”
“It’s an Israeli expression?”
“I guess so. This old guy was a Jew. In fact, the prat who ran into me last night could even have been Israeli, though I only got a brief glimpse of him.”
“You sure that’s what he said?”
“Not so I’d swear to it, but I’ve heard this old guy I just mentioned saying something sounding like what this bloke said last night several times at party meetings, and if it’s what I thought he said, then it means fuck you, or something like it.”
“Did you notice anything about him? Any facial hair, scars?” I asked.
“He had his baseball cap pulled down over his forehead, so I didn’t see too much. He had curly hair, sticking out around the cap, looked like he hadn’t shaved for a few days. But, even with the cap, what I did notice about him were his eyes.” He sounded certain.
“What about his eyes?”
“As he scrambled to his feet he had this really fierce look in his eyes. For a coupla seconds he looked me straight in the face, and there was definitely something about those eyes, almost like he was thinking about killing me.” He laughed nervously. “I thought for a second he was gonna jump me.”
“You said he spoke briefly. Did he have an accent of any kind?”
“Not so’s I could tell.”
Our likely suspect for killing PC Jones was an Israeli? I wasn’t liking where this was going.
“Did you see enough of him to form a mental picture? Can you remember enough of what this character looked like?”
“I only saw his face for a few seconds, but, yeah, I think so. Why’s that?”
*
Thirty minutes later Clements and I were sitting in his cramped office at New Focus with Jacqueline Chandler, a freelance court sketch artist whose work had been used in several high-profile trials which had featured on national news, including recently that of my ex-boss Neville Thornwyn. I’d seen her at the Old Bailey on the day he’d
been sentenced to twenty-two years in prison, staring intently at Thornwyn, standing impassively in the dock, and the image she’d drawn from memory had been a really good one. I’d phoned her afterwards to congratulate her on how well she’d captured Thornwyn’s laconic, almost indifferent expression. After I’d put in a call to her at the agency she worked from in Chelsea, she had agreed to come to Lincoln’s Inn, as it wasn’t too far away.
I’d known Chandler for a few years and admired her work. I’d met her when she was in court during a trial I’d been giving evidence at a few years back, and I don’t quite remember how, but we’d ended up at the same table over lunch at a nearby Costa. We had coffee or lunch together a few times during the trial and we’d ended up becoming friends.
By law, court sketch artists are not allowed to draw anything in court. So, instead, they just sit and stare at the defendant, usually for quite some considerable time, memorising all the defendant’s salient features, making notes and, more times than not, coming up with a remarkably good likeness afterwards. It particularly impressed me when she could do the same with three or four defendants in the dock. I was hoping she could turn Clements’ memory into a recognisable and workable image.
Clements began by describing the man he’d briefly seen, and she began to draw what, to my untrained eye, looked like a random series of doodles. She began asking him questions: how big was his nose? Any facial hair? Did he have puffy cheeks? How thick were his lips? She began drawing a sketch based on his answers. After fifteen minutes of him saying that looks okay, his nose wasn’t quite that shape, his mouth wasn’t that big, his eyes were scarier than that, she’d finally come up with a composite picture Clements thought looked very much like the man he’d seen the previous evening. She then drew it out properly in about the same length of time it takes me to make a coffee.
Clements agreed the likeness was a pretty damn good one. The eyes were intense. He said she’d captured their intensity and their implied threat. Having them staring menacingly at you, particularly in the dark, would be quite unnerving.
I looked at the picture she’d drawn. “You’re quite sure this looks like the guy who ran into you?”
“Yeah, it does, especially those eyes,” he emphasised. “Wow, that’s seriously impressive. It only took you five minutes to draw a picture like that.”
She smiled knowingly at him. “Someone once said exactly the same thing to Picasso. You know what he said? He said, You’re mistaken. It didn’t take five minutes. It took me eighty years to draw like that.”
I wasn’t sure Clements or I understood that, so I thanked Jacqueline and told her I owed her a favour. Which, sweet serendipity, I was able to repay immediately. Leaving the New Focus building, I saw a traffic warden writing out a parking ticket next to her Mini. I showed the woman my ID and said the owner of the car had been helping police with their inquiries. The ticket was cancelled.
Back in my office, I uploaded the image she’d drawn into the Special Branch database, requested a match with anyone the Branch had on its files. After a few moments, a picture flashed up on the screen. The nearest likeness on our database was to one Joachim Balpak, ex-Israeli army, now ostensibly running a small business providing medical supplies, based in London but known to have links with the Mossad, Israeli intelligence. Jacqueline Chandler’s drawing showed a remarkable resemblance to the actual photograph on our database, and the statistical likelihood it’d been Balpak who’d run into Richard Clements, based upon Chandler’s drawing, was given at well over ninety-four percent. Whoa. What was going on here?
It had felt like a mild electric shock when I saw the words Israeli intelligence. The Mossad involved in the execution of a British police officer? Even allowing for the arcane and often oblique nature of intelligence work, this was extraordinary and I was finding it hard to absorb. Israel was a friendly nation. There was no state of hostility between the two countries. Why would someone attached to its intelligence service kill a British police officer?
There was no home or business address listed for Joachim Balpak, other than c/o the Israeli Embassy, Kensington, a certain sign of his connection to Israeli intelligence. If I wanted to talk to him, did I have to go through the embassy or was there some kind of diplomatic protocol to follow?
CCTV images had shown two men with faces covered alongside Qais Jaser and Jamal Khoudri outside al-Ebouli’s meeting. According to Jaser, these two men had just appeared and engaged them in conversation. I remembered one of them had given what I took to be a signal just before counter-demonstrators across the road started to charge at those outside the hall, initially overwhelming the police. Shortly after, a police officer was stabbed and died. The man giving the signal disappeared into the crowd, but the man suspected of the knifing was seen running away. CCTV had picked him up in Lincoln’s Inn, where he’d collided with a cyclist who had got a few seconds’ look at the man’s face and, from the description given, I had been able to get a match with a face on our files.
But the face we had was of someone attached to the security service of a nation the UK was friends with. I was confused. I asked to see Smitherman but was told he was in a meeting at the Home Office. I left a message requesting a meeting with him at his earliest convenience.
*
Mid-afternoon, the first edition of today’s London Evening Standard was published. Sally Taylor had been busy and her story, front-page headline news, proclaimed, Key officia
l in Blatchford campaign murdered in his office. As it was the early edition, the story largely reiterated the basic facts of the case, detailing where Jamal Khoudri had been found and stating he’d died from a single gunshot wound. The tone of the story seemed to suggest this wasn’t just a random act of violence against an unarmed and innocent man, because she also implied a subtext. Earlier today, she said, two Special Branch officers had been to talk to campaign coordinator Qais Jaser, and it had been they who’d found Khoudri.
She’d also written the same two officers had been at Saturday’s meeting in support of the candidates in the mayoral election, where al-Ebouli had been shot at, though the Conservative speaking for Blatchford had pulled out when al-Ebouli’s name was added to the bill. I’d heard Taylor asking about this earlier when Roberts and I had driven away from her. How did she know we’d been there?
The story concluded with Taylor stating police had no leads and no suspects at this time, though investigations were ongoing. Her story mentioned Jaser denying Special Branch had any interest in Blatchford’s campaign. She’d not believed Jaser, and the article concluded with her asking the question: was Special Branch’s interest in Blatchford or in his campaign for Mayor, and why?
The short answer was neither. I’d gone to talk to Jaser because he’d been identified at a public meeting, standing next to someone police believed was a suspect in the murder of a young police officer, and looking like he was communing with that person, though Jaser had denied knowing who it was.
Jaser worked for Christian Perkins, though he was currently seconded to run Blatchford’s election campaign. Had he been there as an interested observer or on behalf of his candidate? It was time to talk to my favourite backbench politician again.
*
Predictably, Perkins was in a meeting when I arrived at Portcullis House. I showed ID and requested, politely but firmly, he make himself available as soon as he could as this was a serious matter.
I’d only been in his well-appointed office five minutes, standing by the corner window, with views of Parliament one side and along to the Festival Hall the other side, and speculating on how much a flat with this view would cost per month, when a flustered Perkins entered the room. His expression suggested that, when he’d heard the word police, he’d not thought it might be me, and he looked disappointed. He was breathing heavily and, being as overweight as he was, rushing about didn’t come easy. I tore myself away from watching the London Eye, curious why so many people waited so long in the queue to ride in it.
“Why’d you need to see me again, officer?” he began after allowing his heart rate to return to normal. “I was in a meeting which the Home Secretary was chairing.” He said this in such a way as to make me think I was expected to be impressed by where he’d been. I wasn’t.
“I’ll make this quick. Qais Jaser. He works for you, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, he does,” he replied. “Is this relevant?”
“Last night, he was seen talking to someone we believe to be a credible suspect in the murder of PC Jones.”
Perkins looked surprised.
“You’ve seen today’s papers, I’m guessing,” I said. “This person was spotted running away just after Jones was sliced. Face was covered with a scarf, so we’ve not yet positively identified him, though we’re working on it. I talked to Jaser earlier today but he’s denied knowing this guy.”
Perkins looked impassive and didn’t respond.
“Was he there in an official capacity?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Perkins said flatly.
“Jamal Khoudri was also there with Jaser.”
“Police found him dead earlier today, didn’t they?” he asked.
“Yeah, I did.”
Perkins’ eyes opened wide. “You did?”
“I was the one who found him,” I stated. “I’d wanted to ask him what he was doing outside Khaled al-Ebouli’s meeting. Any ideas why he and Jaser were there?”
“I don’t, no.” He shook his head. “Qais’s been working for Blatchford since just before the campaign began, and he’ll be with him until after the election next week, but I don’t know why he was there.” He settled back into his chair and laced his fingers together over his ample bulk. “Does Special Branch have any leads?”
I waited a moment before making my next point. “We think the person Jaser was talking to might be someone we have on file. We’re checking it out now.”
“Oh, really? Who?”
“It’s an operational police matter.” I shook my head. “I don’t even know this person’s name, but we got a description from CCTV, logged him removing the scarf as he ran through Holborn. It’s not a clear facial shot but it’s enough to give us something to work with, and we’re following it up.”
I certainly wasn’t going to tell Perkins we’d got a workable description of the suspect from Richard Clements. No need to make that known to someone like him.
“Didn’t whoever it was collide with someone on a bike? I heard the appeal on Radio 4 news, police asking for the cyclist to come forward and tell them what happened.”
“Yeah, he did.” I laughed. “Guy goes sprawling on the floor. The cyclist hasn’t made himself known to police yet.”
Technically this was true. Clements had called me on my iPhone, and hadn’t reported it officially through channels. This also helped keep Clements’ name out of the loop.
Neither of us spoke for a few moments. I was the one who broke the silence.
“I can’t help wondering whether Khoudri being killed is, for want of another phrase, just an unfortunate murder or, given recent events, whether there’s any connection to Blatchford’s campaign.”
“Why would you think that?” He narrowed his eyes inquisitively.
“At present I don’t think; I’m surmising, but it’s interesting. Jamal Khoudri is second cousins with one of al-Ebouli’s bodyguards, Alimi Akeel, and he and his praetorian guard were also in Red Lion Square last evening. Jones was murdered outside the meeting, and today Khoudri is murdered in his office. I’m not quite sure where the dividing line is here.”
“What do you mean by that?” He sounded concerned.
I didn’t answer.
“So, you’re saying, for the record, you’ve no idea why your man Qais Jaser was in Red Lion Square last night.” I said this as I stood up.
“That’s correct. As I said, he’s working with the Blatchford campaign. I’ve not seen him myself for a couple of weeks.”
“Oh, really? I saw him coming out of this very office yesterday morning,” I reminded him.
“Oh, that?” He shrugged. “He just dropped by to touch base about the campaign. I meant I’d not had a proper chat with him for a couple of weeks.”
“Of course you haven’t,” I said, hoping my disbelief wasn’t showing. I thanked him for his time and turned to leave.
“You’re not still looking for Richard, are you, concerning Saturday’s shooting?” Perkins asked, coming around from his desk.
“I’m not, no. Told not to, wasn’t I, by your friend Stimpson?” I said rhetorically. “Interesting, though, at the same time as these two murders, Richard’s assassin friend Phil Gant just happens to be in London. Quite the coincidence, don’t you think?”
I smiled at Perkins and left him looking bemused, standing in the middle of the room.
*
Walking back to the office, the significance of what I’d said suddenly dawned on me. Gant actually was in London; arrived last Thursday. The killing of Jamal Khoudri bore all the hallmarks of a professional assassination: in and out
quickly without being seen, leaving no traces of who’d done it and no clues. But why would anyone want to kill Khoudri? He was a merchant banker and, even in the current climate, when bankers of any description were about as popular as painful piles, I wasn’t sure that justified killing him. Was his death connected to the Blatchford campaign or simply an unfortunate coincidence?
Gant would only k
ill someone high-profile if he were being paid for it. This would mean, if it had been Gant, someone out there wanted Khoudri dead. There was no evidence to suggest any particular reason or person, so, for the moment, I was keeping an open mind.
Back at my desk, I thought about the picture of Joachim Balpak. He was an Israeli and, as things stood, a good suspect for killing PC Jones. But I couldn’t begin to grasp why this would be the case. I needed to talk to someone plugged into the intelligence world. Someone familiar with its operations who’d be prepared to talk out of class to someone they could trust to be discreet. Fortunately I knew such a person.
*
“Rob, how are you?”
I returned the greeting and asked if we could talk soon as I wanted to pick her brain about something which, I suspected, had an intelligence bearing.
Four fifty-five. She’d been waiting in the small Italian restaurant by Pimlico tube station we both liked, and which was easy to reach for both of us. The lunch crowd had long gone and the early evening patrons were yet to arrive, so she’d easily acquired a table. Her dark hair had grown longer and was now flowing past her shoulders, clashing delightfully with her rose-coloured blouse. She was wearing blue-tinged wire-rimmed glasses, rather than the usual contact lenses, and, perched on the end of her pretty little nose, they made her look even more classy.
Not too long back, I’d gone through a phase of thinking I was seriously attracted to Christine Simmons, and even in love with her, but I’d come to my senses when I realised I’d simply been infatuated with her. The mote had dropped from my eyes. It was schoolboy stuff really.
After some office gossip, and nibbling some quite delicious garlic bread as I’d missed lunch, I explained I wanted to put a few things to her and needed her input. I assured her of my total discretion about anything she felt able to tell me.
“What do you need?” she asked, breaking off a small piece of garlic bread.
“It’s like this . . .”
I walked her through the events of the past few days: the shooting at Khaled al-Ebouli, my suspicion of who it might have been based upon eyewitness description, and my being told to leave it alone as the person concerned was supposedly working for MI5, watching and monitoring an American suspected of being the source of the hydroxilyn David Kader had attempted to use. I then mentioned the death of PC Jones the night before and my interviewing al-Ebouli’s bodyguards, along with Qais Jaser and Christian Perkins. Just for good effect I also threw in that Phil Gant was back in London. I left the best bit till last, which was that we believed the person CCTV had caught running away from Red Lion Square to be an Israeli national with connections to the Mossad. She listened intently whilst I was talking, showing no response to anything I said.
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