A Killing Sin, page 8
Mitford turns the severed finger around, peering closely, looking for God knows what.
Stating the bleeding obvious he says, ‘I think we can pretty safely conclude it’s a finger, and from the looks of it, it is recently severed and burnt. The charred flesh suggests it has also been burnt after it was severed. Presumably to make it more difficult to identify without DNA testing. Whether it belongs to Amala Hackeem is impossible to tell at this stage.’
He turns to the man who has brought it in.
‘Get it checked out.’
But then he stops. He looks inside and using a pen he pulls out a pendant, holding it by its fine chain. He holds it up. Dangling, twirling and glinting in the overhead light.
I hear Neil groan. It has three leaves in bronze and silver. I recognise it immediately and my stomach turns a somersault. I bought it for Amala when we graduated.
‘Oh my God, that’s Amala’s. I gave it to her. She never took it off.’
It is highly unusual. I had bought three of them in a tiny silversmith in the Grassmarket in Edinburgh, one for me, one for Amala and one for Ella.
Amala wore hers all the time.
‘Are you sure this belongs to Amala Hackeem?’ Thompson asks.
I swallow hard. ‘Yes, I bought it for her. They were made to order in a small shop in Edinburgh a long time ago. The shop closed down shortly after.’
Neil speaks directly to Thompson. ‘Simon, we need to work out how to get her back. We might just have to do what this woman wants.’
Thompson speaks gently, his palms up. ‘Neil, you know we don’t negotiate. We can’t. Not even for our friends. We can’t. I am really sorry but I can’t let you do that. We all need to focus everything we have on finding her.’
In my head I hear the unsaid, ‘before it’s too late.’
Neil looks aghast. ‘So, what? You are going to let them hack her to bits? After everything she has done for your government. I can’t believe you’ll gamble on us getting to her in time.’ His voice rises and he bangs the table. ‘What are you? A complete monster? Are you some sort of fucking animal?’
He is shouting across the table at Thompson. Alex Dalgleish moves to intervene, Thompson waves her away.
‘Neil, you know our policy. You know we can’t negotiate. If we did they would just keep killing us. Every time we gave in there would be a hundred more.’
‘But they wouldn’t be Amala,’ he roars.
‘No, but they would be someone else’s brother or sister, son or daughter, husband or wife.’
I move beside Neil. ‘Please,’ I beg. ‘Please do something. Please don’t let them kill her.’
Suddenly, it hits me like a thunderbolt. ‘Aafa. We need to find Aafa. Amala was worried about him. She said she was going to see him in Tower Hamlets today. He wanted her to meet his friends and for her to go to the Education Centre. If we find Aafa, we might find Amala. He must know something. I can’t believe I forgot that.’
My hopes soar; surely that will be enough to have a fighting chance of finding her and to get her out. Any hope is better than no hope.
Before I finish speaking, Neil is already back at the screen, trying to locate Aafa.
Thompson, mopping his brow with a large white handkerchief, turns his attention to Mitford and Dalgleish. ‘Do we have any more on tracing those feeds? Have we any idea where these people are? Is it Tower Hamlets?’
Dalgleish and Mitford both shake their heads.
Dalgleish speaks first. ‘We have people scouring the clip for anything that will give us the whereabouts, as well as anything about the people involved, including voice and body recognition. We are working with Neil’s people and we know she’s playing her class and education down. We have our best people working on it. So far no absolute confirmation on the location and no other clues on the woman. Rockeem can probably track Aafa faster than any of us.’
Mitford says, ‘We have all units on alert and we have all potential informants being located for anything that will enable us to work out who is behind this and where they might be holding her. As Alex says, we are fairly confident, but not conclusive, that it’s Tower Hamlets. There has been a higher than usual level of internet chatter on the dark web in the last few weeks and we know from a pretty reliable source that a safe house has been prepared with some heavy security in the Mulberry Estate.’
Dalgleish adds, ‘And we can confirm that the safe house belongs to Abdul Izz al-Din.’
I turn to Dalgleish. ‘Has the BSU come up with anyone?’
Dalgleish nods. ‘They are on it but they have over seventy individuals in Tower Hamlets currently on the radar. Do you know Toni Roberts’?
I nod. Toni and I had worked on some policy papers together. She is an astute observer of human behaviour. Much understated with a wicked sense of humour. On her desk she has a framed copy of the Oscar Wilde quote, ‘Every saint has a past and every sinner has a future.’
Dalgleish says, ‘Hook up with her, she is in the loop. Best talk to her about Aafa. She has a file.’
I hadn’t expected that. I didn’t think Aafa would be on their radar. How had that happened?
‘Ok,’ Thompson says. ‘Keep on it, everyone. Back here in one hour.’
Looking at Norton, he barks, ‘Let’s find Aafa Hackeem. Pick him up and bring him in. No mistakes. This is still a total media lockdown. The clip she has put out about Amala is already attracting a lot of interest. Keep it tight. Got it?’
There is always a hint of a Messiah complex in Thompson’s behaviour – a sense of being so special that the normal rules don’t apply. He strides out without another word to the rest of us.
Norton nods and moves like an army drill sergeant, all the while shouting into her phone.
Bloody hell, I had only seen Aafa the day before yesterday at Ella’s. I make myself replay the lunch again. Had I missed something? He had seemed pretty normal. Bit het up maybe. He had wanted to talk about profiling and the PPCs, but after a while we had talked more about the increase in women being radicalised. I wish I could get Ella’s view on it. He talked to her more than me. They often walked KK, her ugly pug schnauzer, together.
What would she see that I had missed?
TWO DAYS BEFORE
Sunday 23rd May
Ella
Neil and Amala have given up dancing. Aafa is having a go at her. I hear him from the kitchen. It sounds like they are picking up from an argument they had already started somewhere else.
‘Lots of people think you’re helping the government spy on Muslims. Ezylocate means a lot of innocent Muslims are followed and tracked. The police and security services are tracking thousands of people and then they feed the information to the PPCs. Most of the time they add two and two and get ten. It means people like me – people with nothing to hide – get stopped day after day.’
This whole weekend seems to have been about the PPCs and Ezylocate. I pour the lumpy gravy through a sieve. Well, not the whole weekend. Looking at the burnt pot I smile. I was making the gravy earlier when Neil had come in from his run, hot and smelling of the outdoors. I relive his hands on me as I stir the pot. As soon as I had thrust my hips in to his I knew I was a goner. He had kissed my neck just how I like it and ten minutes later the pot was burnt. I add a hefty drop of red wine to mask the taste.
I head in with the roast lamb and smile at the table. I see their anxiety that I might have created some monstrous concoction, and then the relief as I place the dish down.
‘It’s ok. It is all very staid. Proper roast lunch, although I have added a few interesting items to the cous cous.’
They groan as one as I dish up the cous cous, which seems to have congealed into a nasty lump. Then they get back to arguing.
Aafa’s frustration is crystal clear. I decide to dig a bit further. I want to know more for my story.
‘Hey, Aafa, why do you think it’s getting worse? Why do you think the PPCs are helping turn more people towards extremist groups?’
He leans back. ‘Because no one is talking about profiling. Ask Millie. The government is refusing to say the PPCs use profiling but Jean Norton’s a liar. She knows as well as I do that you are eighteen times more likely to be picked up if you are brown and have a beard. God help you if you’re carrying a rucksack. No one thinks I might be a student and it might be my research in there.’
I turn to Millie. ‘I get that but it still doesn’t answer why more women are turning into extremists? Are they as likely to be picked up by the PPCs?’
Millie puts her glass down. She has her lecturing look about her.
Amala shouts, ‘Short version, Mill, or we’ll never get whatever dangerous pud Ella has made.’
I do my mock cross face. ‘I bought it myself so you’re safe. It’s an apple pie.’
Amala sticks out her tongue and then does a wrap it up signal with her fingers to Millie. ‘Ok, thank God. Nothing that might kill us. Hurry up, Mills, make it the quick version.’
Millie puts on her pseudo lecture voice. We are all trying to diffuse the tension. Aafa looks fit to explode.
‘Well, there is an increase in women being picked up. Still less than men, though, but they are being converted at a higher rate. Especially white girls. I have seen hundreds of websites aimed at drawing girls and young women in. Often by linking to their insecurities and offering them a bigger cause and purpose.’
She grabs her glasses from somewhere in the bird’s nest of her hair, and looks over them, going for the scholarly professor look. ‘They start by playing to real vulnerabilities and then create a tempting offer of a family who doesn’t judge you on how slim you are, how popular, or what grades you get. For them, it’s like joining a sorority. The stuff out there is really sophisticated. But it’s not just white girls. It is Muslim girls too. They feel oppressed and harassed and also disrespected.’
I think about my story. Everything she says rings true, but it’s not the theory that gets people to see the world in a different way. It’s story or a drama. Something that grabs their imagination and gets them to wonder, what if that was me…
Millie looks more serious for a moment and, glancing at Aafa then me, says, ‘The PPCs are adept at stripping Muslim men of their dignity and respect. Aafa’s right. With women, though, they force them to take off their veils. They say it’s to identify them but then they don’t give them back. It’s brutal and degrading. And it feels deliberate.’
She shifts, sensing the high charge in the room. ‘Anyway, that’s the short version.’ She sticks her tongue out at Amala then turns to me. ‘So, what’s your story Ella? I thought it was trying to give a human face to radicalisation? Is it about the PPCs too?’
‘Sort of. Well, not really. It’s about women, though. About giving a taste of how things feel from the inside.’
I don’t get to finish because Aafa jumps back in. ‘It’s not right, though, is it, Millie? Thompson and Norton shout from the rooftops about our security and that some intrusion is a small price to pay. The Prevent and Protect Centres are supposed to be about keeping us safe. In reality, they are state-sponsored harassment for men and women, but only if they are obviously Muslim.’
Looking directly at Amala, he says, ‘And you and Neil have helped make that happen.’
I squirm a bit in my seat. I hate conflict. He does have a point. Maybe he’s right. That’s why it’s important for people to know the whole truth.
TODAY
Tuesday 25th May 10.58
MILLIE
Still thinking about Ella and what she might know about Aafa’s plans, I see Norton close her phone with a snap. She turns to Ali. ‘Dr Ali, is there anything else you can do discreetly?’
It is evident Ali has already shared something that is not going to be divulged to the rest of us.
He nods. ‘I will see what I can do.’
She thanks him and asks that he return at 12.15 with everyone else to pull together whatever findings we have before the next contact at one when we would be given bank details.
I realise something is tugging at my thoughts, through all the horror and confusion. Not just Aafa but something is bugging me about the blogs and chatter. Something important. Something I’ve missed.
I turn to Norton and ask if I can look through all the materials not just the edited highlights. My thinking is, if I can work out what makes Nusayabah tick and where any recent recruits may have been taken, then we might have a chance of working out where Amala is being held and why. It seems more and more likely Nusayabah is the woman in the clip rather than the name of a group. I am pretty certain she is a leader of something. She has a lot of authority. She acts as if she has real power.
Norton nods. ‘Of course, we will have everything uploaded and you can take a look.’ With that she marches out the room with a brisk order. ‘Get Dr Stephenson everything and get it now.’
Is this about Faith to Faithless? Amala gives them a lot of money. Is that it? Or something else? There is a reference in the correspondence between Nusayabah and someone calling themselves Ackwaat, which talks about a meeting at a women’s group today. Was that just coincidence? Has Amala ever mentioned Nusayabah before and I can’t remember? Something in her stand-up routine maybe? Has she said something to offend Umm Umarah? Oh, Amala what have you done?
I have known her my whole adult life. I love her like a sister. I can’t imagine what my life would be like without her in it. She is the most stubborn and the cleverest person I know. But she is also one of the kindest. It’s unbearable.
I wonder if Neil has heard from Ella yet. I check my phone. Nothing from her and nothing from Mark. I had messaged her this morning when she cancelled breakfast. I was glad then. I hadn’t been able to face a debrief of the whole Mark thing before getting my game face on to come here. I know I am being a coward. I had avoided all her sympathetic looks on Sunday too.
I can’t get the picture of Amala out of my head. For a moment, I give into tears. Trying not to hear Amala’s screams, to stare down my worst fears. I ring Mark again. It goes straight to message. Again.
‘Mark, it’s me. I know you don’t want to talk to me but I really need you to ring. I can’t say more on a message but please believe me it’s urgent. Please, please give me a ring.’
I hang up. I force myself to concentrate. I am going back to the beginning.
Tuesday 25th May 11.05
NUSAYABAH
I hardly ever think about before but there is a smell of cut grass in the air. So sweet and fresh. So English.
For a moment my mind wanders. I can see our garden right on the edge of the woods. I was wearing a pink dress. It’s my party and Mum had made a huge chocolate cake. Everyone was singing ‘Happy Birthday’.
‘Make a wish. Make a wish.’
I blew out the candles. I squeezed my eyes tightly closed and tried to think what to wish for. I peeped through one eye and Daddy winked. I knew then what to wish for. He picked me up and twirled me around in circles. I inhaled the fresh smell of the grass and the slight sickly smell of cakes and lemonade.
Tuesday 25th May 11.06
MILLIE
Everything has been downloaded to my smart block. I begin to read. The blogs start from eight months earlier. I scan to the ones headed ‘Nusayabah’. Someone has made notes and added events that may be relevant around the dates, and translated words that may not be well known. It is a good piece of work in a short period of time. The text follows the usual turgid pattern.
In December, a series of posts stand out for their sheer viciousness. The big news at that time had been the discovery of a high-level cell in East London. Jean Norton had been all over the press hailing it as a victory in the long war against terrorism, and used it as an opportunity to affirm the necessity of effective surveillance, making the point that it was a small price to pay if a few people lost their privacy.
The ring leader was the Strategic Commander of Har majiddoon. The analyst has even given the phonetic pronunciation (Ha–ram–gee–dawn).
The blueprint for Har majiddoon could be traced back eighteen years to the embittered soldiers in Camp Bucca. That history is a core part of my teaching. The American controlled internment camp was seen by many as a world-class training ground for jihadists. Hundreds of thousands of men had passed through. A hundred thousand prisoners; disciplined soldiers from the secular Baathists in Saddam’s army as well as any man the Americans thought might be a terrorist just by how he looked. Many were imprisoned with no evidence against them. Regardless of their beliefs when they were interned, 90 per cent of those who were released left as ruthless jihadists.
Har majiddoon had formed from the various factions that had split and reformed from Al-Qaeda. It was perfected through the bloodbaths of ISIS who meticulously combined their passion with a cold calculated discipline and a forensic and deliberate long war. The off-shoots that came after built an incomparable army. Every soldier willing to give his life. Her life. To give it freely. To give it in a heartbeat.
Oh yes, we all know the legacy of Camp Bucca only too well. We are still paying for it in Britain, France and the USA.
I click on the report in Newswatch from that time reporting on the ATF50 raid.
Top Terrorist Killed in Dawn Raid
14th December
In the early hours of yesterday morning ATF50, the multi-agency Anti-Terrorist Force which combines intelligence, technology, surveillance and Special Forces, intercepted a high-level Har majiddoon cell in East London. The cell involved at least six men and was headed by Abu Bakr (37), the long-time strategic commander.
Bakr was in the top 10 of most wanted global terrorists. Wanted by both US and British authorities for atrocities committed both here and in Washington, DC. It is widely believed Bakr was the mastermind behind the coordinated suicide bombers in the Tysons Galleria Shopping Mall in Washington which killed 28 and injured hundreds two years ago.
