A Killing Sin Read online

  A

  KILLING

  SIN

  First published in Great Britain in 2019

  by Urbane Publications Ltd

  Suite 3, Brown Europe House, 33/34 Gleaming Wood Drive, Chatham, Kent ME5 8RZ

  Copyright © K.H.Irvine, 2019

  The moral right of K.H.Irvine to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-1-912666-44-7

  MOBI 978-1-912666-45-4

  Design and Typeset by Michelle Morgan

  Cover by Dominic Forbes

  Printed and bound by 4edge Limited, UK

  urbanepublications.com

  A

  KILLING

  SIN

  K.H. IRVINE

  urbanepublications.com

  For David, Kathryn and Martha.

  The whole squad. My whole life.

  And

  For Jean and Deric for everything.

  ‘Lord, thy most pointed pleasure take And stab my spirit broad awake. Or, Lord, if too obdurate I, Choose thou, before that spirit die A piercing pain, a killing sin And to my dead heart run them in’

  Celestial Surgeon,

  Robert Louis Stevenson

  CONTENTS

  Today

  10 Days Before

  4 Days Before

  Today

  15 Years Earlier

  Today

  2 Days Before

  Today

  11 Years Earlier

  Today

  18 Years Earlier

  Today

  Two Days Before

  Today

  20 Years Earlier

  Today

  20 Years Earlier

  6 Years Earlier

  Today

  7 Years Earlier

  Today

  8 Days After

  9 Days After

  Acknowledgements

  Bibliography

  About the Author

  TODAY

  Tuesday 25th May 17.24

  I guess we never know what our last thought will be before we die.

  I am going to die in this room. Today. A room full of terror. A room full of the stench of my blood. And worse. The smell of my burnt flesh.

  They have taken everything.

  But they have not taken my last thought.

  I will not give them my last thought.

  I close my eyes and will myself to remember a day. An ordinary day. A June day. There is cherry blossom lining The Meadows in Edinburgh. Their scent not quite enough to mask the smell of the brewery carried on the chilly wind. Chilly even in June. I picture it. Arthurs Seat and Salisbury Crag outlined against a watery sun. Standing bold and resolute for thousands of years. The university emptying of students, pouring out as finals are finally over.

  The three of us together. We have a picnic of stale pizza and cheap cider. It’s perfect. We have a Frisbee. I throw it to Millie. She misses. She always misses. I smile at the thought. The last thought.

  I pull the burqa tighter. I can hear the jack boots. They are coming back.

  Coming for me.

  Tuesday 25th May 17.25

  NUSAYABAH

  Everything has gone to plan.

  Perfect in every way.

  I flick through the screens.

  The clock is counting down.

  Less than 35 minutes.

  Meticulous planning and patience.

  About to pay off.

  10 DAYS BEFORE

  Saturday 15h May

  The Comedy Café

  ELLA

  The Comedy Café open mic is a bear pit. The standard is high and the punters unforgiving. I feel the adrenalin surge in my veins as the MC shouts her name.

  ‘Amala Hackeem!’

  I give Neil’s hand a quick squeeze. Millie and I lock eyes. I can feel her take a breath. Part excitement and part trepidation. Amala loves it. She runs on stage, talking at the same time. Punching out jokes like a volley of Amir Khan jabs. Jab. Jab. Jab.

  I hear her opening line. She’s used it before and it still makes me cringe. I can’t help it. I worry for her.

  ‘I know what you are thinking. You are looking at me and thinking, she can’t be a real Muslim. She’s not dressed like one.’

  The crowd shift in their seats. Ready to laugh but not sure yet, feeling the underlying air of anxiety in the room. Less certain of what’s ok.

  With a flourish that makes my heart pound, she finishes, ‘She doesn’t look like a bottle of Guinness.’

  They laugh. They’re on her side. Thank God.

  In the bar afterwards, she’s buzzing. She doesn’t even see him coming. Neither do I. Not until I see his spit land on her face. He looks like a man possessed. ‘Who do you think you are, you infidel? You think you’re so special. You drag good Muslim women into your gutter.’

  His mouth is twisted into a vicious sneer, his yellow teeth bared and his eyes full of hate and contempt.

  ‘Someone is going to wipe that stupid smile off your face. One day a husband will show you what it is to be a good Muslim wife.’

  In that instant I know she won’t resist it. She never can. And she doesn’t.

  ‘Don’t worry, mate, I don’t fit the bill to be a good Muslim wife.’ She lifts her chin, and with a grin that’s recognised the world over, she delivers the line.

  ‘I talk.’

  I feel it before I see it. The air as he pulls back his arm to maximise the impact. Rage turns his face puce. His fist crashes into her eye before she has time to move from the full force of the blow. Before any of us can move. Stunned, she falls back. Scrambling to stay upright but failing. I rush to grab her as she falls. In my peripheral vision, I see Millie, quick as a whip, grab his hair and smash his face into the bar.

  4 DAYS BEFORE

  Friday 21st May 10.28

  AMALA

  Aafa’s late. He’s always late. I am waiting in the Timber Yard Coffee Shop in Seven Dials near Covent Garden. It’s packed with students, shoppers and yummy mummies. The hum of conversation mixes with the swishing steam from the hipster baristas as they call the orders. ‘Soya skinny latte with extra shot of turmeric.’

  It is nearly 10.30 and we had agreed to meet at 10. I will be livid if he is caught up in some bloody experiment. I feel my face twitch. It throbs less than it did, but I am conscious of the surreptitious looks people are giving me, not meeting my gaze. I don’t know if it’s because they recognise me or they’re trying to work out how I got such a shiner. I had called in a few favours and kept it out of the mainstream media, but it was still trending, picked up by the various self-styled paparazzi that had been in the bar. I put my hand to my face. It still feels tight.

  I wiggle my jaw and stroke my cheek gently. Reliving last week makes my throat dry. I’m used to the abuse but there’s never been violence before. That’s new. I had laughed it off on Saturday night but ever since then his face keeps flashing before me.

  That sneer. The viscous hatred in his eyes and the disgust in his voice. I shiver, despite the damp and cloying heat. Millie had slammed his face hard into the bar just as Neil had moved in to grab him. The guy had run off hurling threats of eternal damnation. I was more shaken than I dared admit. Neil and Mil
lie were all for calling the police but I couldn’t face the attention. I just wanted to go home. Alone. Tempted as I was by Ella who just wanted to take me home with her and Neil so she could wrap me up and force feed me hot chocolate.

  I try to read the Rockeem Foundation Report on Teachers in Tents. Neil and I set up the Foundation after visiting Afghanistan. I was desperate to do something practical, not just stand up and be worthy. Our focus is giving free education to refugees. Something else we’ve been vilified for. I don’t care what they say about immigrants and scroungers; it’s making a difference. Although my heart sinks as I glance at the statistics. It’s like a finger in a dyke. The more teachers we send to Syria, Lebanon and North Africa the more students desperate for an education and a better life seem to arrive. Ella had worked out in a camp in Lebanon teaching English for a bit last year. She came home wrung-out and exhausted.

  God, I need to get a grip. I am tired and bad tempered. I’ve already had too much coffee and now I’m wired. Where the hell is Aafa?

  The last week has drained me. Not just the guy at the Comedy Café but Neil and I are still cranky with each other. He’s definitely too up close and cosy with the Home Office. He knows it and so do I. We need to push back. He thinks we need to build a stronger case around the misuse of Ezylocate first.

  When Neil and I developed the Ezylocate software, it was for finding missing kids, then we adapted it for use by health services to respond to serious incidents. It captures biometric data and emits a GPS signal for tracking. But now it is the basis of ID cards. To pay for anything from a cup of coffee to a tube ticket, the GPS, and therefore the Ezylocate, has to be on. Being outside without an ID card is now an offence that carries a possible jail sentence. Sometimes I wonder if we have unleashed a monster.

  I tut out loud. The people at the next table glance at me. I can’t help it, I move my eyebrows up as if to say, ‘Yeah, what?’ They turn back to their macchiato and muesli.

  Neil thinks we need to be careful about how we handle things with the government so they don’t tie us up in legal knots. He has a point. It’s also why he never lets me anywhere near the big clients, especially the ministers and mandarins. I am frustrated, though. We still keep saying we live in a democracy. We should be able to talk about the impact on civil liberties. Ezylocate was not meant to be like this. It was meant to be on the side of the good guys. Not meant to be used to pick up anyone who might be a bit suspect. It changed by stealth. This government played us. I know it and Neil knows it. We just need to agree what to do about it.

  After a while I give up waiting and go to the counter to buy some water. The café is busy and there is a smell of damp clothes mingling with strong coffee. The weather has suddenly turned warm but it’s wet and the street outside is shiny with drizzle. I hear a drum and turn to see four orange-robed Hare Krishna devotees chanting as they walk over the cobbles. They are oblivious to the rain and the school party running beside them. Kids no doubt heading to Covent Garden before a matinée on Shaftesbury Avenue. The forecast is for the weather to improve tomorrow but that is not helping my humour today.

  The smell of muffins and pastries makes my mouth water. I give in and buy an enormous pain au chocolat. I will have to go to the gym tonight. I hate exercising by myself. I drop a quick message to Ella to see if she is up for our usual run across Hampstead Heath later. Oh for God’s sake, come on Aafa.

  Looking back out to Monmouth Street I see a figure stooped over with a backpack on his back. He is talking animatedly. I watch him pause as he listens to a response on the end of the call. It takes me a few seconds to realise it’s Aafa. He ends the call as he pushes open the door.

  I turn on him and hiss, ‘Where the hell have you been? I’ve been here for like an hour.’

  He runs his fingers through his hair, wet and sleek like a pelt from the rain.

  ‘Look, can we sit in the corner and talk?’

  One glance at him tells me something is wrong. I nod at the small wooden table tucked in the corner where I have left my coat on the chair beside my dripping brolly, not quite ready to forgive him.

  Friday 21st May 10.40

  ELLA

  I am staring at the wall. It’s covered with notes, all in different coloured paper. To the untrained eye, it’s a mess. To me, it’s a story. I have been working on this for months. It’s starting to come together. It’s a big story and now I just need to dot the ‘I’s’ and cross the ‘T’s.’

  I look back at the screen. The spine of the story is there and I sense that feeling in the pit of my stomach. The feeling I had dreamed of. The one when you know you’re on to something. Something big.

  I sip my ginger tea and start typing again. I have been at it for hours. My back and neck are cramped and I stretch out. I pull my ponytail tighter trying to stay focused. I look at my checklist. I call it my double checklist because every fact has already been checked once. I am adding all the secondary sources to the list.

  I call Millie. She picks up on the first ring.

  ‘Hey, how are you?’

  I smile. I love her voice. She doesn’t really like her Scottish accent, but I do. She sounds like my mum.

  ‘Hey, Millie. Good, thanks. Any news?’

  ‘Nah, still nothing. Grace has stopped asking so many questions about where her daddy is. I’m not sure if that’s a good or a bad thing.’

  I close my eyes. I picture Millie with her spiky hair and scarlet lipstick. Nothing like as tough as she looks, especially where Grace is concerned. I can hear the pain in her voice but I know she will have a lecture in fifteen minutes and won’t want to get in to that now.

  ‘Listen, hon, it’ll be ok. He’ll get in touch. I know he will. He just needs time to calm down.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. But it’s been four weeks and three days and feels way longer.’ She blows out a long breath. She wants to move on too. Switching to practical and upbeat she says, ‘Anyway, what are you up to?’

  ‘Listen, I know you’re busy so I’ll be quick. I’ve just been pulling together some notes for a story. Do you know anyone at the university who knows anything about selling arms? Maybe the international trade guys?’

  ‘Arms? What, like guns? Christ, Ells what kind of story are you working on? I thought you were doing the story about women and extremism?’

  ‘I am. I’ve got two on the go. This is about a company that got a government contract to sell arms to ATF50.’

  ATF50 is the multi-agency firearms unit set up, as part of the endless drive on counterterrorism. It was set up by the prime minister, Simon Thompson, after Brexit, but it’s really the baby of the hard line home secretary, Jean Norton.

  ‘Wow, big stuff. No, I don’t off the top of my head but I’ll have a think. Doesn’t Neil know anyone? He’s chummy enough with the government. Him and Thompson and that old boys’ network that keeps clinging on by its fingertips.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve asked him. But Amala and him are really tetchy at the minute about anything to do with Thompson. She’s really pissed at Neil for not going in harder with Thompson and Norton. Neil thinks they’ll have more impact if they can show the data that proves they are using Ezylocate in breach of the terms of their contract. Amala wants to tell Thompson to shove it and revoke the licence. He says she’s a liability. Last time they were both in the same room with Thompson, Amala called him a fascist in liberal clothing.’

  I am only partly smiling. Amala, the queen of the one-liners, is bloody funny but it does get her in to trouble. I cover the smile, I don’t want to get into a debate with Neil by sticking up for her again.

  ‘Millie, I have to go. I’ve got a bit more digging around to do. Let me know if you come up with anyone. I’ll see you Sunday. Hey, and try not to worry about Mark. He does love you, you know.’

  I don’t say it but I think it; maybe he just doesn’t like you very much right now.

  Friday 21st May 10.45

  AMALA

  My stomach is churning with all the coffee I
had earlier, my ongoing anxiety from the last week and now the look on Aafa’s face.

  ‘Do you want anything?’ I ask.

  ‘Double espresso,’ he says, shrugging off the backpack and heading to the table. I order, eying the banana bread that is Aafa’s favourite. I know he would want some. My brother is constantly hungry but I don’t feel like getting him any. He knows how much I hate sitting around waiting. He can get his own bloody banana bread.

  I sit down and push the steaming cup to him.

  ‘What’s up?’

  Aafa leans in. He looks tired.

  ‘What’s happened?’ I ask again. This time more gently.

  ‘I was picked up again, last night on my way home. That’s eight times in less than a month. Eight times in the PPCs.’

  I sigh. I know how much Aafa resents the PPCs. The Prevent and Protect Centres were set up at the same time as ATF50. Thompson had wanted to prove his hard-line credentials in ‘dealing with immigrants and the threat they pose to our national security’. The PPCs had ‘special holding and exploration suites’, specifically used to hold ‘persons of interest for questioning based on reasonable intelligence gathering’. In reality, they are interrogation centres run by the police and manned by ex-squaddies, with the power to stop, search and question those so called ‘persons of interest’. Or in other words, every non-white, backpack-carrying young guy with a beard. They are rarely out of the press. And there is no sign of the debate going away any time soon. Far from it.

  ‘Every time they pick me up it’s the same. Am I involved in something radical? What do I know about the sharia community in Tower Hamlets? What about the Education Centre? I tell them it is a study group but they won’t listen. They keep asking about you and if you give me money. Am I using your money to fund extremism? It’s driving me mad.’

  My heart sinks. I love my little brother. He is a good person. He didn’t ask to be pulled into my public orbit. I know he’s not comfortable with some of the things I say and do, especially the partying and the stuff the paparazzi love to show – usually me falling out of clubs. I hate seeing him upset and I hate the fact he’s getting picked on. He’s an easy target and we both know it.