Death in Kabul, page 6
‘On what basis?’
‘On the basis of his long experience as a murder squad detective in the London police. He will be leading this investigation, under my direction.’ The lie sounded completely convincing, not least because Jananga himself believed what he was saying.
‘I see.’ Tomlinson gave a slight nod. ‘Seems a little irregular. I’m sure the Military Police can conduct the investigation.’
‘You think so?’ said Mac. ‘Aren’t your guys just glorified school prefects? The most they get to investigate is petty pilfering and soldiers breaking curfew. A murder investigation is something completely different, and you need someone with the relevant experience.’
Holder bristled visibly but managed to hold his tongue.
‘That would be you?’ said Tomlinson.
Mac raised a shoulder. ‘That’s right, Colonel.’
‘Did you know Chief Superintendent Chris Joseph during your time in the Met?’
Sure. He was the tosser who forced me to resign and told me I’d never work in a British police force again as long as I lived.
‘Only by reputation.’ Mac nodded his head thoughtfully. ‘A good man, as I understand it. You know him?’
‘We were at school together. I follow his career from afar. Pretty impressive.’ Tomlinson returned his nod. Connection made, bridge built. ‘So, what do you need from us?’
‘Do you have any idea what Marshall might have been doing out at the tank graveyard yesterday evening?’ said Mac.
Tomlinson slid a glance across at Jananga, obviously reluctant to speak in front of him.
The situation called for tact – if they were going to assume that just because he was British, Mac was on the same side as them, it might be something he could use to his advantage. But he also needed to show Jananga that his loyalties lay with the Afghan police and not the British Army.
‘Forgive me, but this is a murder enquiry. Major Jananga has jurisdiction, as the body was found off camp. You can speak freely in front of him.’ Or at least pretend to.
‘Yes, of course. Major Jananga, I’ll give you all the help I can.’
The words sounded hollow to Mac and he wondered just how helpful the British establishment was going to be in this matter.
‘There was no weapon found with the body,’ said Mac. ‘Could you ask your adjutant to check his quarters for any sidearms he had signed out.’ The army would need to account for any missing weapon. ‘Major Jananga and I will also need to speak to the men in his section in case they can shed any light on his movements.’
‘Certainly,’ said Tomlinson. ‘He would have had a 9mm Browning HiPower, plus ammo. I’ll get the details sent across to your office. And the details of his vehicle. Now, I suppose we’d better get this bloody ID over with. Where’s the body?’
‘In the city morgue at the Indian Hospital.’
Rolling his eyes, Tomlinson stood up to signal the meeting was at an end. His expression was bleak. ‘I’d better talk to the Families Officer at home about informing his next of kin. If I remember rightly, Marshall’s wife had a baby recently. Poor kid.’ Stopping at the door, he added, ‘All I can tell you is that there was absolutely no operational reason for Marshall to have been off base last night. Whatever trouble he got into, he got into it on his own. So if it’s your investigation, MacKenzie, it’s up to you to find out exactly what happened and why one of my best officers had his bloody throat cut.’
* * *
They took their leave of Lambert on the understanding that Holder would facilitate the interviews with the men and keep them briefed with any information on Marshall’s weapon and vehicle.
‘Jesus, I could do with a tea,’ said Holder as they walked back across the MP compound. ‘You?’
‘Sure,’ said Mac.
‘Just give me a minute to check my calls. Wait here.’
‘We’ll go for a smoke,’ said Mac as Holder ducked back towards the MP offices.
Mac got out his Marlboros and offered one to Jananga.
‘Thank you, Mr Mac.’
‘Just Mac is fine.’
He lit the major’s cigarette and then his own, looking around the camp with interest. On the far side of the parade ground, two choppers were powering up on the helipad. Someone was going somewhere interesting. Then a door in the building closest to the MP compound gates opened, and a handful of men, heavily armed, heavily laden and heavily bearded emerged. Mac did a double take.
‘Hey, Sharky!’ he yelled.
One of the men looked round with a frown and then, on seeing Mac, broke into a grin.
‘MacKenzie, fuckin’ hell! Is that you?’ He broke away from his men and came towards Mac and Jananga. ‘What the fuck are you doing out here?’
‘What I always do,’ said Mac, with an equally big grin. ‘Policing. And you?’
Sharky laughed. ‘Uh-uh,’ he said with a shake of his head. ‘I’m not even here and you haven’t even seen me.’
‘Fair do’s, no change there then,’ said Mac. He held out a card. ‘Here’s my number, for when you are here.’
‘Gotta go,’ said Sharky, grabbing the card. His men were already boarding the two helicopters.
‘God speed,’ said Mac.
‘Who was that man?’ said Jananga as Sharky jogged across the training ground.
‘Sharky – special forces. I worked with him in London on anti-terrorism.’ He didn’t want to give out more detail than that.
Noddy reappeared and, five minutes later, they found themselves sitting at a table in the cookhouse. It was late afternoon and the place was practically empty. Holder brought across three chipped china mugs of tea and a plate of chocolate digestives, making Mac realise he hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast.
Jananga took a sip from his mug, spluttered and spat tea all over the table. He looked furious, and the string of Afghan phrases that followed the tea out of his mouth were definitely not polite.
Holder looked shocked, and Mac laughed.
‘This isn’t tea,’ said the major, mopping his face on his sleeve. ‘You English are uncivilised.’
‘Nothing like a good brew,’ said Mac. He dumped two heavily laden teaspoons of sugar into his own mug and stirred it.
The major pushed his cup to one side with disgust.
‘Something else?’ said Mac. He gestured towards the plate of digestives that sat between them.
Jananga took one, still frowning. ‘I need to change the taste in my mouth.’
‘Fine, when it comes to tea, we’ll agree to disagree,’ said Holder. ‘But we’ve still got to work together.’
‘Saw a gang of Pilgrims heading out by chopper just now,’ said Mac, changing the subject. ‘What are they up to?’ He knew damn well he wouldn’t get an answer.
Holder frowned. ‘I don’t think you did. We don’t have any SF ops working out of Souter currently.’
Mac gave a dry laugh. ‘Oh, I know what I saw, Captain. I knew one of the men – I’d worked with him before.’
Jananga was following the exchange with interest.
‘You’re mistaken.’ There was a bite of anger in Holder’s tone, and Mac knew it was a warning to shut up. ‘What next for the investigation? Tell me who you want to talk to.’
‘I think we need to talk to last night’s gate guards,’ said Mac. ‘I want to find out exactly when Marshall left the base and whether he was alone.’
Holder fished a small notebook out of his breast pocket and started taking notes.
‘Let’s build a timeline – and work to fill in the gaps,’ continued Mac. ‘We know the man is Captain David Marshall, and we have an approximate time of death between midnight and one a.m. this morning. I want to establish his movements for the twenty-four hours leading up to his death.’
While Holder enjoyed his tea and Jananga didn’t, Mac made a list of all the details they had so far about the case, drawing up a preliminary timeline.
‘According to his roster,’ Holder said, ‘Marshall was working in the logistics office as usual yesterday.’
‘What time would his working day have finished?’
‘His shift apparently ended at six.’
Mac added it to his notes. ‘So we need to follow his movements after that.’
‘The gate guards will have logged what time he left the base. After that, he’s going to be harder to trace.’
‘Until he shows up dead in the tank graveyard.’
* * *
By the time they left the cookhouse it was after six, which meant the men on the gate would in theory be the same team who’d worked the previous evening when Marshall had headed out.
Camp Souter was bounded by a high concrete wall, punctuated by numerous sangars – small, squat watch towers positioned to have overlapping arcs of fire so the whole perimeter of the camp could be defended. There was a single gate in and out, Holder explained to them, located at the south-west corner of the camp. Coming from the outside, visitors had to pass through a simple drop-arm barrier, manned by Afghan soldiers armed with rifles and disinterest. Beyond that, the steel main gates were more substantial. The all-powerful British guard commander controlled who came and went, assisted by a vehicle searcher, a person searcher and a dog handler, all of whom were afforded the protection of a constantly manned machine-gun post.
Holder pointed out the guard commander. He was leaning against the sandbags at the back of the machine-gun post, smoking a cigarette.
‘Sergeant Vincent, a minute, if you’re not too busy.’
The man looked around carefully. ‘Might just fit you in, sir.’ Then he looked at Jananga, an unspoken question on his face.
Mac did the introductions and explained why they were there.
‘Jesus! Someone slit his throat? Why?’
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out, Vinny,’ said Holder. ‘Can we take a look at your log for yesterday evening?’
‘Of course.’
Vinny dropped his cigarette on the tarmac, grinding it out with the toe of his boot. He led them around the gun emplacement and into the sentry hut by the side of the gates. Inside the cramped space there was a small desk, half of which was taken up by the most important tools for the job – a primus stove, a kettle, a box of teabags and a couple of dirty mugs. The brew was everything when you had to stand at your post for hours on end through the December night. Jananga shuddered visibly at the sight of it. At the other end of the desk, Mac spotted a written logbook and a motley assortment of pens.
The dog handler, a burly man with lank, greasy hair, was sitting in the post’s single chair, behind the desk. He stood up as they came in. His sniffer dog emerged from under the desk. Its eyes went to Jananga and it made a low, grumbling noise at the back of its throat.
‘Down, Arthur!’
Mac squinted in the bad light to read the name tag on the man’s chest. Granton.
‘At ease, Private,’ said Holder.
The man sat down again, scratching the dog’s ears to settle him.
‘Same team on duty last night, Sergeant?’ said the captain, turning back to Vinny.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Vinny. ‘Want me to call them over?’
Mac nodded, and a minute later two privates who’d been standing by the gate peered in through the doorway. Meanwhile, Jananga had opened up the logbook and was checking the entries. Mac looked at it over his shoulder.
‘So, Captain Marshall left the base at 22.05, according to this. Anyone talk to him?’
‘I did, sir,’ said one of the two privates.
‘And? Did you ask him where he was going?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Don’t your men have to give you a plan when they leave camp?’ said Jananga to Holder.
Holder shrugged. ‘In theory, Marshall should have logged his intentions with his unit. But…’
Jananga frowned and turned away from him.
‘Give me the details of the vehicle,’ he said to the private who had spoken. ‘And check with his unit what plans he’d given them.’
The man looked taken aback. Mac realised he had no idea who Jananga was and had probably assumed he was an interpreter or driver.
‘Private, this is Major Jananga of the Kabul police,’ said Holder. ‘He’s assisting us with our enquiries.’
Jananga stiffened. ‘You are assisting me with my enquiries, I think.’
The private looked from one to the other of them. It was an awkward moment and Mac realised he’d get much further questioning the gate guards, and any other camp personnel they had to talk to, if Jananga wasn’t with him. The Afghan’s presence put them all on their guard.
But Jananga wasn’t going to be deterred.
‘How often did Captain Marshall leave the camp?’
The private shrugged. ‘Most days. His work…’ He glanced at Vinny to see whether he should carry on. Vinny gave him a small nod. ‘Most days he went out to the airport.’
‘Anywhere else?’
‘I don’t know.’
Jananga looked around at Vinny and the other private.
‘We’re here to stop unauthorised people coming in,’ said Vinny. ‘We don’t police our own people going out.’
It was time to wrap this up – they were getting nowhere. Mac would have to ask Holder if he could come back and talk to the guys later when Jananga wasn’t around.
‘Come on,’ he said, turning for the door.
Jananga reached out and picked up the logbook. Alarm bells rang in Mac’s head. Vinny shot him a warning look – the log book never left the guard hut.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I need to take this, so I can record all of Captain Marshall’s trips off the base. I will have it returned to you quickly.’
‘No way, mate,’ said Vinny, holding his hand out for the book.
‘Major,’ snapped Jananga.
‘Major Jananga,’ said Holder, ‘we can’t let the logbook off the base. Let me get it copied for you in my office – it’ll only take a minute.’
‘I’ll organise the copies, sir,’ said Vinny.
Jananga’s eyes narrowed, but he handed the book to Vinny.
‘Thank you, Sergeant.’
It took longer than a minute, but not much time passed before Vinny came back and handed a sheaf of copies to Mac.
Outside the guard post, Jananga turned and glared at Holder. ‘You and your men are not very co-operative. Please to remember, this my investigation.’ Anger made his English falter.
Holder at least had the decency to look embarrassed.
‘Sorry, Major. That was my fault. I should have explained who you were in there.’
Jananga nodded, but he didn’t look mollified.
‘You English might think you know it all, with your superior resources and equipment, but remember, Captain, that David Marshall died in my country – and here in Kabul, you know nothing.’
Chapter 7
Saturday, 6 December 2003
It had seemed like a very long day. Mac lay on his bunk, wondering what lengths the company went to to source the most uncomfortable mattresses. It was only by constantly shifting position that he could get any rest at all.
He took a sip of his coffee – bitter, and almost cold now. Grimacing, he once again reviewed the notes he’d made on the investigation into Marshall’s death so far. Why was Davie Marshall out at the tank graveyard so late at night? Meeting somebody? There would be no other reason to be skulking around there after dark. A clandestine meeting in the middle of the night suggested an involvement in something that was decidedly shonky. It seemed hard to believe that he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, and had been mugged.
A knock on the metal door echoed around the container.
‘Coming.’
Mac went to the door. It was Ginger.
‘There’s a Sergeant Vincent on the phone. Wants you to meet him at Souter, outside the gates.’
‘When?’
Ginger shrugged. ‘Now, I think.’
Mac sat up and reached under the bed for his desert boots.
‘How’d he know to ring here?’
This time Ginger smiled. ‘Might have something to do with you running around all day in a company jacket. Not too hard to ask around and find a number for the company.’
Right, note to self, dig another jacket out of the trunk.
‘Okay, got it. D’you wanna ride shotgun?’
Half an hour later, the Land Cruiser pulled up to the kerb opposite the main gate of Camp Souter, with Ginger at the wheel. A figure emerged from the shadows, which Mac recognised as the sergeant he’d spoken to earlier at the gatehouse. He stretched back to open one of the rear doors and Vinny slipped into the back seat.
‘Vinny, isn’t it?’ he said.
‘Yup.’
‘I’m Mac, and this is Ginger. What can I do for you?’
‘Sorry, Mac, to call you out this late, but I had to wait for a break.’
‘Not a problem.’
‘It’s about Captain Marshall.’ Vinny leant forward between the two front seats. He lowered his voice. ‘I didn’t want to say anything earlier, when you were there with your Afghan major. I wasn’t sure I should talk freely in front of him or the fucking Monkey.’ By this he was referring to Holder, as a member of the Military Police.
It was just what Mac had suspected.
‘So what do you want to tell me?’
‘Look, I don’t know if this is important or not, but Captain Marshall… apart from when he was working, he used to go out quite a lot. Quite often stayed out all night.’
‘Where do you think he went?’
Vinny shrugged. ‘I don’t know. But when he came back in the morning, sometimes I could smell alcohol on him, through his car window.’
‘You mean he came back drunk?’
‘Not totally bladdered or anything. But, yeah, sometimes I thought he was a bit pissed.’
Mac pursed his lips and thought about the implications. He probably went out drinking and spent the night in one of Kabul’s brothels. It wasn’t a crime in itself for a British soldier to visit a brothel or to have a drink or two, but it would be bloody stupid to get caught drunk-driving in Kabul. If he did, it would cost him plenty of baksheesh, and if he didn’t have a wad of cash on him the consequences wouldn’t have been pleasant.
