KILL ME IF YOU CAN (Dave Cunane Book 8) (18 page)

These could all have been gathered from a senior common room in any university in the country, but definitely not from police stations. I was reminded of the days when I worked as a university lecturer … very brief days. Only the man next to Hudson-Piggott didn’t fit that definition. There was something rough and thuggish about him. The shaven head and set of his
shoulders suggested that he preferred to settle disputes with his fists rather than academic arguments.

If I’d originally described Hudson-Piggott as an ‘entomologist’ because he looked at me as if I was a bug on the end of a pin, that impression was heightened by the totally neutral inspection I received from six pairs of eyes.

It resembled a scene from a ‘Hornblower’ novel where the hero is summoned to a court-martial at the Admiralty. If they were intending to frighten me they were succeeding. I tried to give a casual ‘couldn’t care less’ smile but it turned into a grimace.

The man next to Hudson-Piggott briefly stood up and gestured towards the two vacant seats at the foot of the table. Claverhouse and I sat down.

I was determined to assert myself. I was a citizen of a free country.

‘So this is Room 101,’ I said. My voice sounded very loud.

The feeble quip produced absolutely no effect, not even a polite chuckle.

‘Mr Cunane,’ the skin-headed thug at the head of the table said quickly, ‘I’m Rick Appleyard and you’ve formed entirely the wrong impression. We’re not here the grill you or confront you with your worst nightmare. We asked you up here because purely by chance Jennifer spotted you down in the concourse.’

He turned with a flourish towards the monitors.

Without taking her eyes off her screens the operator, Jennifer, raised her hand.

‘Purely by chance, Mr Bracegirdle, I don’t think so. I think the bug you have in my office told you I was coming here and you laid on this reception for me.’

‘The name’s Appleyard, not Bracegirdle, and you’re exaggerating your importance if you think we bugged you. It was pure chance that you turned up just as we were discussing Sir Lewis Greene’s murder. It would have been silly not to call you in for a little chat.’

‘Sorry about the name mix-up but I have trouble remembering the made-up names you people give yourselves. Have we got a John Benbow or a Horatio Nelson round the table?’

‘Mr Cunane, I must say I’m delighted that you live up to
your reputation as a comedian. However we’re here on serious business and as a member of the organisation set up to keep us all safe from harm I’m hoping that you can cast some light on the terrible events at your uncle’s house.’

Hudson-Piggott laid a cautionary hand on his arm and whispered something.

‘Sorry, I stand corrected … your unfortunate relative’s house. May I extend condolences to you on behalf of all here and of the service which I represent? Sir Lew was once one of our most distinguished auxiliary workers.’

That was news to me but my brain was going into overdrive in an attempt to place the man’s accent.  I pride myself on my ability to do this but am often wrong. Now I formed a strong impression that this bruiser’s clipped tone originated in
Sith Efrika
. The feeling was reinforced by the rough look of him. He could have played tight-head prop for the Springboks. Certainly his head, shaven with greying black hair at the sides, had been well battered at one time and as I inspected more closely I saw that his right ear lobe but not his left had the rugger-bugger’s characteristic thickening. Yes, he definitely could have been a tight-head prop, a scrummager and general mauler.

‘So can we declare a truce Mr Cunane? I believe you know some of my colleagues but the others are shy about giving out their names.’

‘Oh, I’m sure they can make some up. I don’t mind,’ I said.

This produced an appreciative titter from some of the colleagues. Bren still didn’t look at me.

Appleyard then advanced round the table to shake my hand. I risked a peek at Bren out of the corner of my eye. He was giving nothing away.

Appleyard’s handshake was extremely firm. He was definitely a prop forward with a grip like a bench vise.

‘Now the thing is Mr Cunane, some of my colleagues have formed the opinion that you know a great deal more than you’re telling about the sad death of Sir Lew Greene,’ he said in a friendly, half apologetic way. ‘So even if you hadn’t turned up here by chance we’d still have wanted to see you.’

I shook my head, unwilling to utter a denial which
certainly would be used against me later. Not for one second did I intend to give away the slightest thing if I could avoid it. From what Hudson-Piggott and Claverhouse had said earlier they didn’t appear to know anything about the attempted obliteration of Topfield Farm with C4 explosives. It was best that they remain in ignorance. Anything which underplayed my involvement was good.

‘Oh, well perhaps this will go better if I tell you the facts that we’ve established.’

I shrugged.

Claverhouse administered a painful kick to my left leg.

‘Yeah, I suppose so,’ I said more to disguise the scream of pain that was welling up in my throat than to show willing.

‘OK, well the security camera at the Judge’s house appears to show an individual wearing a kufiyah. Unfortunately the camera was smashed before it could give more information. A kufiyah is …’

‘Islamic male headgear usually worn by Arabs.’

‘Yes, good, Miss Claverhouse has told us that you’re well informed. Watch this and see what you think.’

He pressed buttons on a console in front of him. The lights dimmed, a screen descended on the wall behind him and an overhead projector came on. A few more twiddles at his remote and a video began running. It showed a poorly lit image of the drive leading to Weldsley Park, Lew’s grandly named home in Wilmslow, but if you didn’t already know was Weldsley you could have taken it for anywhere.

‘The killers disabled the external lights before going in,’ Appleyard said, anticipating my objection. ‘These images have been enhanced to within an inch of their lives. This is the part I want you to take note of.’

A group of blurry figures came closer to the camera. It was hard to make anything out but one of them, the one who disabled the camera, was wearing a kufiyah. That was it: he was wearing a kufiyah, otherwise he was totally nondescript. Not a single feature of his face was visible.

‘Disappointing, isn’t it?’ Appleyard commented, ‘but nevertheless a clue as to the identity of those responsible for this
appalling crime as is the manner of Sir Lew’s death: torture followed by decapitation. We all know that the Tower of London used to be decorated with the heads of the monarch’s enemies, but that was in the Tudor era. At the present time decapitation is a signature of Islamic jihad.’

He was wrong but who was I to say. At this point the Asian man seated at Appleyard’s right cleared his throat loudly.

‘Yes, Yasser,’ Appleyard said, ‘we all know jihad also means the inner struggle for spiritual purity but in this case I think the decapitation was intended as a message to us.’

He paused and stared at me as if waiting for a response. Was I expected to lead a mob to burn down the nearest mosque? I kept my face blank and strategically placed my leg behind a table support in case Claverhouse felt like using her football skills again.

‘Now this is where we require a contribution from you Mr Cunane. It’s typical of Islamic fundamentalists to take their revenge, if that is what this killing was, against their victim’s whole family …’

‘That’s in Iraq or Afghanistan, but this is England,’ Yasser intervened.

‘And who is to say where these killers may have been trained or where they’ve come from,’ Appleyard countered in a very cold voice. ‘I must ask you not to intervene again, Yasser. We’re all used to dealing with improbabilities around this table. Every scenario must be evaluated until we decide to reject it.’

This rebuke produced a certain amount of paper sorting and foot shuffling from the others. Yasser concentrated on a thick folder in front of him. I noticed for the first time that the wide table was covered in folders, laptops and photographs except where Claverhouse and I were sitting.

‘So this brings us back to you Mr Cunane. There is convincing evidence that some sort of an attempt on your life was made at Topfield Farm. I can understand that due to your past experiences you may not have wished to involve the police but I assure you that any help you give us in identifying the perpetrators will not be used against you.’

‘Well, what do you think I saw?’ I hedged.

‘Come on, Mr Cunane, there was a bullet in your bedroom window frame at head height. That tells me you were looking out and that someone fired at you. I can promise that if you fired back and hit one of them no action will be taken against you.’

‘I didn’t fire at anybody.’

‘Nevertheless a shotgun was discharged in your farmyard, we have the pellets. There was also an intense petrol fire, your ATV was damaged and there are positive indications that blood was shed on those cobblestones. Come on, man, you can speak freely. Whatever the politicians and lawyers say some of us still believe a man has a right to defend his home. I promise that no action will be taken against you for that.’

‘There was an attack but I’m saying no more than that without my lawyer.’

‘That would be Mr Marvin Desailles. A most combative solicitor, I believe and we definitely don’t want him here holding up our researches. You must grasp the urgency of this matter. These militants may be preparing to strike at the general public. If you could have prevented it and didn’t would you like that to be on your conscience?’

He folded his arms and stared at me.

‘What do you want me to do?’ I asked after a lengthy pause. I was no stranger to emotional blackmail.

‘We can set aside the actual incident at your home. Our forensic team have reconstructed that as far as they’re able to without your cooperation. What would be tremendously helpful would be if you could identify the men you saw. We know there were four at your uncle’s home. Were you attacked by four?’

It seemed easier to go along with him rather than admit anything about the men with the C4.

I nodded. It wasn’t a lie, only there were two separate attacks involving two men each.

‘I’m impressed that you held them off Mr Cunane but then I’m informed that you have quite a track record for getting out of nasty scrapes. You don’t have to be absolutely certain about identifying these guys; a strong suspicion will be enough.’

‘OK.’

A series of mug shots was projected onto the screen.

Without exception each one was of an Asian male, some
were bearded and some clean-shaven. Some were hardly more than teenagers, others middle-aged. Some wore white skull caps, some kufiyahs, some Afghan hats or turbans. Others were dressed in western clothes.

I watched the first dozen or so, at first saying no as each picture appeared and then merely shaking my head.

‘Wait!’ I said as they monotonously popped up one after another.

Appleyard paused the pictures and turned to me expectantly.

‘All the men I saw were white, not Asian.’

‘You can’t be certain of that. It was a dark night and look at Yasser here. He certainly qualifies as what our American cousins call a Caucasian, and don’t forget some Islamic militants are exactly that … genuine Caucasians … Chechens from the Caucasus. There are also British converts. Carry on looking, please. You’ve only seen a fraction of the database.’

Every so often Appleyard coaxed me to scrutinise a face more thoroughly.

‘Please make very sure it’s not this man. We’ve had him in our sights and a positive identification would enable an arrest and questioning.’

He did this four times. There were four faces above all others that he wanted me to implicate and he pressed me repeatedly but I wouldn’t perjure myself. All it needed was a quick nod for each and I could be out of this place but I shook my head instead.

I didn’t want to argue the toss with Appleyard but my farmyard had been lit up like a football stadium. He must have known that so what was going on? Those two petrol bombers were white as was the pair in the hen house. I carried on looking. I wondered why Appleyard was retaining his whole team as witnesses to this pointless chore. It must have something to do with his little spat with Yasser. Appleyard wanted to prove something to his team.

Finally, after a frustrating hour Appleyard called a halt. He dismissed everyone except Claverhouse, Hudson-Piggott, Yasser and the armed guard.

‘I do hope you’re not shielding someone,’ he snapped. He brought his face close. His breath was unpleasant, halitosis or something rotten stuck in his teeth.

‘My circle of friends among the Islamic extremist community is small to non-existent,’ I said.

‘Ha, very amusing but the courts have been extremely tough on individuals who’ve knowingly allowed terrorism to flourish by their obstruction.’

‘I’m obstructing nothing and I’d like to go.’

‘I’m afraid that’s not possible at this time.’

‘What?’

‘As you probably know the Criminal Justice Act 2003 allows us to hold a terrorist suspect for up to fourteen days subsequently extended to twenty eight days upon reasonable suspicion and if I decide to hold you your aggressive little Rasta lawyer won’t be able to do a thing about it.’