Dead Men ss-5 Read online

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Khan. ‘Such a waste.’ He looked pointedly at his watch.

  ‘A terrible death, but not necessarily a waste,’ said the man. ‘At least something can be gained from a terrible death. And if something can be gained, there is no waste.’

  Khan dropped his cigarette on to the pavement and ground it out with his heel. ‘Who are you? What do you want?’

  The man smiled, showing perfect white teeth. ‘You can call me Hassan. My name isn’t important. But that doesn’t mean what I have to say to you isn’t of the utmost importance.’

  ‘Forgive me, but I must find my wife.’

  Khan started to walk back into the shop but Hassan gripped his elbow. Khan tried to pull away but the man’s fingers dug into his arm like steel claws. Hassan was still smiling, but his eyes were ice cold. He put his mouth close to the policeman’s ear. ‘I’m going to show you something,Chief Superintendent,’ he whispered. ‘Something that will upset you. But for your sake and for your wife’s sake, you must remain calm.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ said Khan.

  ‘Take a good look at the man who is standing behind your wife over there,’ said Hassan.

  Khan’s frown deepened. She was talking to a middle-aged saleswoman and holding up the green dress. Behind her stood a tall, good-looking Asian man with gelled hair and a gold earring. He was wearing a shiny leather jacket with the collar turned up.

  ‘You see him?’ said Hassan. ‘The man in the leather jacket with his hands in his pockets?’

  ‘Yes, I see him,’ said Khan. ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘I want you to look at this,’ said Hassan, taking a mobile phone from his coat pocket. ‘It will upset you, but you must keep calm because the man who is standing behind your wife has a knife in his pocket and if you react badly he will stab her in the throat, then run off to the street where a motorcycle is waiting to spirit him away.’

  Khan’s jaw dropped.

  ‘Smile, Chief Superintendent. Smile as if you haven’t a care in the world.’ Hassan held up the mobile phone, the screen facing Khan. His thumb pressed a button and a jerky video began to play.

  Khan bent closer to the screen. A woman in jeans and a T-shirt was lying on her back on a floor. Her mouth was taped so all he could hear were grunts. An Asian man grabbed her arms and pinned them to her sides. Khan’s stomach lurched as he realised it was his niece, Sara. A second Asian man unfastened her jeans and pulled them down her legs. He tossed them to the side, then ripped off her panties. Sara was kicking out but the first man was holding her tight. The man who had ripped off her panties looked into the camera and Khan caught his breath. It was the man now standing behind his wife in the shop.

  ‘Keep smiling,’ said Hassan, ‘as if you haven’t a care in the world.’

  Khan stared at the screen in horror. The man who was holding Sara let go of one wrist and the second man pulled off her shirt. Sara was tiring. Although she was still struggling there was no strength in her movements.

  The camera moved closer as a knife cut through her brassiere. Her full breasts fell free and Khan wanted to look away but he couldn’t take his eyes off the screen. She was naked now and he could see the tape round her mouth pulsing as she breathed.

  The first man grabbed Sara’s hair, grinned at the camera and raised the knife. It flashed downwards and blood spurted across her throat. Khan gasped.

  Sara thrashed around for a few seconds, then went still. Blood formed a pool round her body. For the first time Khan realised she had been lying on a sheet of plastic.

  The man put away the phone and shrugged. ‘Stay calm,’ he said. ‘We don’t want to hurt you or your wife.’

  ‘Who are you?’ said Khan.

  ‘I told you. You can call me Hassan.’ His thumb flashed over the phone’s keyboard.

  ‘You killed her?’

  ‘Actually, the man standing behind your wife killed her. Then we took her to the alley where her body was found. There is nothing to connect us to her murder. Trust me on that. Nothing other than the video on this phone. And I have just deleted it.’

  Khan’s wife was still deep in conversation with the saleswoman, and behind her stood the man from the video, his hands deep in his pockets. Khan’s mind was spinning. He’d just seen a video of his niece being brutally murdered, and the man who’d done it was standing behind his wife. He knew that as a police officer he should run over and grab the killer, pin him to the ground and arrest him for the murder of a pretty young girl who had never done anyone any harm. Dear, sweet Sara. He clamped his teeth together.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking, Chief Superintendent,’ said Hassan. ‘You’re thinking that you should be acting like a policeman. Calling for back-up. Pressing charges against me for the murder of your niece. That was your first impulse and, of course, it’s understandable. But I’m sure you realise now that the reason I went to Sara’s funeral was so that I could follow you home. I know where you live, Chief Superintendent. I have stood outside your house and watched your son and daughter go to school. I have watched your wife go shopping. I have watched you come home at night. And the man who killed your niece is just as capable of killing your wife and your children. So take a deep breath, stay calm and try to smile.’

  ‘What do you want?’ whispered Khan.

  ‘What I want, Chief Superintendent, is for you to stop acting like a policeman and to start acting like a Muslim.’

  Salih and Tariq walked down the street to the multi-storey car park where Salih had left his rented Ford Mondeo.

  ‘Who was he?’ asked Tariq.

  ‘That doesn’t concern you,’ said Salih.

  ‘You showed him the video you took of the girl we killed.’

  ‘Tariq, I told you at the start. You obey me without question.’

  ‘I have obeyed. I have done everything you asked. But I would like to do more. I would like to learn from you.’

  Salih frowned. ‘I’m not seeking an apprentice.’

  ‘Then let me help you,’ said Tariq.

  ‘I don’t need help,’ said Salih. Tariq seemed about to say something, but instead he bit his lower lip. The two men walked in silence to the car park. Salih didn’t say anything until they were sitting inside the car. ‘You can tell no one what you have done,’ he said.

  ‘That’s a given,’ said Tariq. ‘I killed a girl. Why would I tell anybody?’

  Salih ran his hands round the steering-wheel. ‘What about Mazur? Is he okay about what we did?’

  ‘He believed Hakeem, that we were carrying out jihad. He wasn’t happy about killing a girl but he believes it was necessary for the greater good.’

  ‘And you, Tariq? What do you believe?’

  Tariq flashed his gleaming white teeth but didn’t say anything.

  ‘Your smile doesn’t impress me,’ said Salih, flatly.

  ‘I didn’t mean to offend you,’ he said.

  ‘Why did you ask me who that man was, the man I spoke to?’

  ‘Because you told us the video was to show people in Pakistan. You didn’t say we’d be showing it to someone in England. And it was clear from the look on the man’s face that he knew the girl.’

  Salih exhaled slowly.

  ‘It was a mistake to ask you, and for that I apologise,’ said Tariq.

  ‘It’s complicated, and I have been less than honest with you,’ said Salih.

  ‘Hakeem said that in helping you we would be helping the struggle against the infidel.’

  ‘That is true,’ said Salih.

  ‘Can you explain to me why killing the girl helps us hurt the infidel?’ Salih’s eyes narrowed, and Tariq held up his hands. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve offended you again.’

  ‘What do you want from me?’ asked Salih.

  ‘I want to help. And to learn.’

  ‘To learn what?’

  The fire was back in Tariq’s eyes. ‘I have never seen a man like you before, even in Afghanistan. We trained there in a camp, they tau
ght us to kill, and yet even the men who taught me were not like you.’ The words tumbled out and Tariq took a deep breath to calm himself. ‘It was easy for them because they were fighting in the hills and they could shoot at the enemy with their Kalashnikovs and RPGs. In Pakistan they taught us how to make bombs, but bombs are an easy way of killing people. What you do, it’s more . . .’ Tariq struggled to find the right word. ‘It’s more intelligent. More considered. The way we abducted and killed that girl, it was perfect. You had every step planned. We were never in danger of being caught. You told us what we had to do, we did it, and it was perfect.’

  ‘It has to be that way,’ said Salih. ‘There can be no margin for error.’

  ‘That’s what I want to do,’ said Tariq.

  ‘You want to kill people? Then you should become a shahid.’

  ‘I want to kill specific people,’ said Tariq. ‘Blowing up civilians is a waste of time unless you do it regularly. People forget. The Tube is as crowded now as it ever was. It’s almost as if the bombs have been forgotten.’

  A housewife walked by, pushing a supermarket trolley laden with carrier-bags. Tariq stopped speaking until she was putting her shopping into the boot of her car.

  ‘Abu Hamza told me that all unbelievers should die. It says so in the Koran. But I want to kill the people at the top. The politicians and the generals. And I want to target them, I want the world to see them beg for forgiveness before I take their lives. I want to behead them and show their beheadings on the Internet. Can you imagine the effect of that? To see the Foreign Secretary or the Prime Minister himself killed on video?’

  ‘You’re setting your sights high,’ said Salih.

  ‘That’s what we have to do,’ said Tariq. ‘Nine Eleven was a grand statement. So were the Madrid bombings and the suicide-bombers on the Tube here. But now the brothers at the mosque are talking about putting bombs in shopping malls and nightclubs. I tell them it’s pointless. If you kill nobodies, people forget. We have to aim high. We have to make it more personal. And I think that by working with you I can learn how to do that. You have the skills I need. And I can help you.’

  ‘I work alone,’ said Salih.

  ‘With respect, that’s not true,’ said Tariq. ‘You needed my help with the girl. You might need it again.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I have killed for you, Hassan. I have proved my loyalty. You know you can trust me.’

  Salih smiled. ‘If I didn’t think I could trust you, I would have killed you already.’ His eyes bored into Tariq’s. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘This is what you must do. Get yourself another phone and buy a pay-as-you-go Sim card. Once you have it, send me a text. How reliable is your memory?’

  ‘It’s good.’

  Salih told Tariq his mobile-phone number and made him repeat it five times. ‘Do not store my number in your phone. Keep it only in your head. Do not use that phone to contact anyone else. Anyone. You use it only for me. Do you understand?’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘At some point in the future I may call on you again.’

  Tariq grinned. ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘You won’t regret it.’

  ‘I hope the same goes for you,’ said Salih, and started the car.

  Khan finished cleaning his teeth and went into the bedroom. His wife was already in bed, reading one of the trashy novels she loved. Khan had often wondered why a woman who was such a romantic at heart had decided to marry a man whose career involved dealing with the scum of the earth. There was precious little romance in the life of a police officer.

  ‘You look tired,’ said his wife, her eyes still on her book.

  ‘I’m okay,’ he said. It was a lie. He was far from okay. A man had threatened him, and Khan had no idea how to deal with it. His first instinct was to inform his superiors but if he did there was no guarantee that his family would be protected. He knew that was one of the big lies – that the police could protect the public. They couldn’t. They could solve crimes, they could control public order, they could hand out speeding tickets, but they didn’t have the power to stop bad things happening. If Hassan wanted to kill Khan and his family, he would succeed.

  ‘Draw the curtains, honey,’ said his wife.

  Khan went to the window. A man was standing in the street below, his hands in his pockets. Khan was short-sighted and he couldn’t make out the man’s features. He could see tanned skin and his glossy black hair glinted under the streetlights.

  ‘What’s wrong, honey?’ asked his wife, from the bed.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Khan. He hurried to his bedside table and put on his glasses.

  ‘What on earth are you doing?’ said his wife, sitting up.

  When Khan got back to the window, the man had gone. He hadn’t seen his face but he was sure it had been Hassan, and that he had been sending him a clear message. Hassan could reach him, no matter where he was. Tears of frustration welled in his eyes and he took off his glasses. ‘I thought somebody was breaking into a car,’ he said.

  ‘Always the policeman,’ said his wife. She patted the bed. ‘Come here.’ Khan sat on the bed and put his glasses back on the bedside table. He sighed. ‘Bad day at the office?’ asked his wife, and began to massage his shoulders.

  ‘You could say that,’ he said.

  ‘A good night’s sleep cures a lot of ills,’ she said, and kissed his neck.

  Khan forced a smile, but inside he was more scared than he’d ever been. He knew there was no hiding from a man like Hassan. Khan either did what Hassan wanted, or his family would die.

  Shepherd looked down from the bedroom window. Elaine had driven off in her VW at just after nine o’clock that morning and it was now close to midday. He went downstairs, switched on the television, went into the kitchen and turned on the kettle. Then he saw the four dirty mugs in the sink and realised he’d probably had enough caffeine that morning. The view from the kitchen window reminded him of the state of the garden. He needed something to occupy him so he might as well tidy it, he thought.

  He’d found the key to the garden shed in a drawer in the kitchen shortly after he’d moved in. Now he unlocked the door. Inside he found an old petrol mower, a selection of rusty garden tools, a green plastic watering-can and stacks of chipped terracotta flower-pots. Earwigs scuttled away from the daylight and there were curtains of cobwebs in the corners of the sloping roof.

  His mobile rang and he took it out of his back pocket and looked at the display. It was Button. ‘Everything okay?’ she asked.

  ‘Just thinking about doing a little gardening,’ he said. ‘She’s gone out, not sure when she’ll be back.’

  ‘You’re getting closer, aren’t you?’

  ‘Softly, softly,’ said Shepherd. ‘But, yes, I’m getting closer.’

  ‘I’ve had the results on the bullets they took out of Willie McEvoy. They came from Carter’s service revolver, same as the ones that killed Dunne and McFee. We’re going to have to up the ante, Spider. We’ve kept a lid on this so far but eventually someone’ll talk.’

  ‘I can’t push her too hard, Charlie.’

  ‘We need to find that gun.’

  ‘I’m working on it.’

  Shepherd ended the call and pulled out the mower. He unscrewed the cap on the fuel tank. It was empty. He went back into the shed and rooted around for a petrol can. Among the spades and forks he found a pole with a metal hook at the end. It wasn’t a garden implement he had ever seen before. He pulled it out. There was a dark red centipede on the handle, which he shook off. It scurried under the shed. Shepherd held up the pole and stared at it, wondering what it was. Then he smiled.

  Charlotte Button handed over her SOCA credentials to a bored uniformed sergeant. She flashed the man a smile, ‘I have a two o’clock appointment with Chief Superintendent Khan,’ she said.

  The sergeant noted her details on a clipboard and handed back her ID card. ‘I’ll phone his office,’ he said. ‘Visitors have to be escorted upstairs, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Not a
problem,’ said Button. She sat on an orange plastic chair and put her briefcase on the floor beside her. The waiting area smelled of stale sweat and there were grubby fingermarks on the walls. A poster offered an amnesty on all knives handed in before the end of the year. Another informed victims of domestic violence that they could phone the police for help. An old lady was standing at the counter, telling a young blonde policewoman that her next-door neighbour’s dog was barking all night and keeping her awake. Button wanted a cigarette so she took a stick of chewing-gum from her handbag to stifle the cravings. She looked for a bin to throw the wrapper in but there wasn’t one so she put it into her coat pocket. The old lady was crying now and dabbing her eyes with a lace handkerchief.

  A door opened and a woman in her late twenties, wearing a dark skirt and blazer, smiled at Button. ‘Can you come with me, please?’ she asked, holding the door open. She handed Button a plastic tag with VISITOR on it and a bar code. Button clipped it to her coat. ‘You’re not carrying a weapon by any chance, are you?’ asked the woman.

  ‘Good Lord, no,’ said Button.

  ‘I’m sorry, I have to ask,’ said the woman. ‘We get all types in here, and everyone has to go through the security. Sorry.’ Button put her handbag and mobile phone on a conveyor belt that passed through an X-ray machine, followed the secretary through a metal detector, picked up her things, then walked to the lift. They went up to the sixth floor.

  Khan had a corner office, as befitted his rank. The woman showed Button in straight away. He was wearing his uniform and stood up when he saw her. She had never met the chief superintendent but she had seen him on television many times, usually touted as one of the top Muslim police officers in the country. He was a big man with wide shoulders and a bulging stomach that strained at his jacket. His heavy jowls overhung his starched shirt collar. He strode round his desk, his arm outstretched, and his stubby fingers grasped Button’s hand. ‘Thank you so much for coming, Ms Button,’ he said.

  Button smiled. ‘Charlotte, please,’ she said. Her eyes flashed across Khan’s desk. There was a framed photograph of the chief superintendent with his wife, son and daughter, a clear plastic in-tray filled with correspondence, a brass paperweight in the shape of a cat, and a large mug with a picture of the Eiffel Tower on the side filled with pens. A computer terminal stood on a side table and on the wall behind it hung framed photographs of Khan meeting the great and the good – shaking hands with Ken Livingstone, the Mayor of London; looking solemn with two bearded mullahs; with his arm around David Beckham; standing next to the commissioner of the Metropolitan Police; sharing a podium with Tony Blair; and being presented with a certificate by an earnest-looking man in a dog-collar. By the door there were several framed certificates, including an honorary degree from Leeds University.