Latent Hazard rkadika-1

by Piers Venmore-Rowland

  Latent Hazard

  ( Rafi Khan and Detective inspector Kate Adams - 1 )

  Piers Venmore-Rowland

  Latent Hazard

  Piers Venmore-Rowland

  Chapter 1

  The splintering crash of the front door hitting the floor woke Rafi Khan with a jolt. Terrified, he sat bolt upright, but was too slow; before he could get out of bed, a harsh voice barked, ‘Don’t move, or we shoot.’ There was no escaping the bright red dots dancing on his chest.

  ‘Move your hands to where we can see them.’ Rafi slowly lifted up his arms, but at that second the wind was knocked out of him. Under the weight of his assailant, he fought for breath. His hands were pulled behind his back in a vice-like grip, and in a matter of seconds he was expertly trussed up, blindfolded, gagged, dragged off the bed with a bump and left lying on the floor.

  ‘Suspect apprehended and in our custody. Flat secure. You can come up,’ the same stern voice called out.

  Rafi was bewildered and scared of what might happen next. He couldn’t move and the blindfold across his eyes was painfully tight. It took a full minute for his mind to catch up with everything that had just happened.

  ‘He didn’t give any trouble,’ said the curt voice. ‘His front door was a piece of cake; when will people learn?’

  ‘Thank you, sergeant,’ said the man in charge. ‘What have we got here? Cases packed; ready to leave. It’s lucky we got here when we did.’

  The tone of his voice changed. ‘Rafi Khan, I’m arresting you under the powers conferred under section 41 of the Terrorism Act. You will be held in detention and informed of the charges against you within the prescribed period.’

  The man paused. Rafi sensed he was standing very close to him. ‘Put those guns away and take him down to the van, then search this flat from top to bottom. Let’s see what’s hidden here.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  A pair of strong hands grabbed Rafi and, forcefully dragged him across the floor, like a sack of potatoes.

  What the hell was happening? Everything had taken place so fast. Three flights of stairs later, Rafi felt like damaged goods. He was manhandled out of the building into the cold February air, where, from his blindfolded world, he could hear the sound of an idling diesel engine.

  The man pulling him shouted, ‘Help me lift him into the back.’

  Rafi landed with a thud onto the metal floor. His expletives were muffled by the gag and came out as little more than irate grunts. The tape across his mouth held firm. He was dragged on to the side bench. The doors slammed shut. A bang on the side of the van signalled it was time to go and it lurched forward. In his dark world he heard the police sirens blaring. The van was travelling fast through the deserted streets of London. And then, just as he was becoming accustomed to his environment, it came to a sudden halt.

  Rafi was untied and hauled out. Fresh air washed across his face. He was now sandwiched between two men.

  ‘Start walking.’

  Rafi moved forward. His shin bumped into a solid object. Sharp pain shot up his leg. He stopped.

  ‘Oi! Keep moving!’ bellowed one of the men next to him. ‘Keep moving!’ he repeated.

  Rafi tried to proceed in a straight line, but his sense of balance had deserted him. He staggered along in an ungainly manner.

  ‘Stop! Stand still!’ came the stern order.

  To the best of his ability Rafi tried to obey. There was no warning of the ripping sound that came next. Pain seared across his eyes as the sticky tape removed chunks of his eyebrows and eyelashes. He’d hardly drawn breath when the gag was ripped from his mouth. ‘That hurt!’ he yelped.

  Rafi screwed up his eyes in the bright fluorescent light. Either side of him were two muscular policemen in full protective clothing.

  In front of him, behind a tall wooden desk, was the duty officer, a pen in his hand. ‘Name?’ he inquired in a no-nonsense manner.

  ‘Rafi Khan.’

  A series of quick-fire questions followed. ‘Address…? Date of birth…? Nationality…? Personal effects: pyjamas, watch…Yes, sign for them ’ere… Stand ’ere. Height: 175 centimetres.’ The duty sergeant read off the measure on the wall. ‘Turn to face me.’ The flash of the camera surprised Rafi. ‘Turn sideways.’ Another flash. ‘Hands out.’

  In a whisk he was fingerprinted. The whole process was like a moving along a production line.

  ‘Come over ’ere! Remove your pyjamas! Bend over!’ Unceremoniously, Rafi was strip-searched. His dark-skinned legs showed a selection of new purple bruises. The one on his left shin looked particularly spectacular.

  ‘Been clumsy, ’ave we?’ enquired the duty sergeant. No reply was sought. ‘Get dressed in these.’

  Rafi awkwardly put on the drab clothing. It swamped his slight frame.

  ‘Take ’im away.’

  He was led to a claustrophobic and dingy basement cell. Its desolate overhead light shone starkly. The door closed behind him with a heavy thud.

  Rafi hardly had time to take in his surroundings before the metal door swung open.

  ‘Follow me,’ said a guard. ‘Don’t get any ideas! This way!’

  Rafi was led down a bare corridor to an interrogation room; like everything else in the police station, the room was devoid of character, bleak and utilitarian.

  Two interrogators sat on the other side of a narrow desk in a steely silence. Their manner made him uncomfortable: one smirked, the other scowled.

  The guard pointed to the chair opposite them. Rafi looked carefully at the two men, his stomach knotted with apprehension. They looked truly intimidating and as hard as nails.

  ‘Sit down!’ ordered the dark haired man. Rafi recognised his cockney accent. It was a sound he had grown up with.

  The blond haired man turned on the recording device and stared at Rafi with his steely blue eyes. ‘We have a number of questions to which we would like truthful answers.’ His voice was business-like and lacked any emotion.

  ‘Who are you?’ enquired Rafi cautiously.

  The dark haired man frowned. ‘Cheeky little sod isn’t he?’ his penetrating eyes stared at Rafi. ‘I’m Mike and he’s Andy. And for now, that’s more than enough information.’

  Andy studied Rafi carefully. His craggy face was framed by slightly over-length wavy hair. ‘Let’s get started.’

  ‘Aren’t I entitled to a solicitor?’ asked Rafi.

  ‘Sod it! No!’ said Mike firmly. He looked like a jackal sizing up his prey. ‘You are a terrorist suspect. You don’t even get a telephone call and no one gets to see you.’

  ‘Me a terrorist suspect? How the hell… no way! How have I broken the law?’ asked a bewildered Rafi. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong… And what about my human rights?’

  ‘The rules are different. You have absolutely no rights. No calls, no visits, nothing,’ replied Andy.

  ‘Surely I should at least be told why I have been locked up?’

  Mike leant forward. ‘No! You’ll get nothing from us.’ In contrast to his colleague, he had black crew cut hair and a scar running across his left temple into his hairline.

  ‘The law makes it very clear. Terrorist suspects can be detained without charge,’ said Andy, ‘For rather a long while, as it happens. So don’t get your hopes up. You’re going to be cooped up here for weeks or until such time as you tell us what we want to know!’

  ‘Mr Khan,’ said Mike, with menace. ‘You can either help us and make this painless – or you can be difficult, which would be very unwise,’ his scowl deepened. ‘Being uncooperative isn’t your best option. We have evidence that puts you in the middle of a major terrorist conspiracy.’

  Rafi couldn’t believe his ears. He opened his mouth to
say, ‘You what?’ but nothing came out.

  Their questions rained down and became increasingly intrusive. Rafi tried to answer Andy and Mike as they interrogated him on his religion, contacts, reading habits and favourite websites, but they were seemingly dismissive of all of his answers. Their fierce questioning was frightening him.

  ‘I’m a law-abiding British citizen. I’m innocent! Tell me what you think I have done and I will prove my innocence,’ said Rafi in desperation.

  ‘That’s not the way it works. Sod off back to your cell and think about the dangers of not cooperating fully,’ barked Mike.

  Rafi was frog marched back to his cell, where he sat on the corner of his bed, shaking. He was cold and his nose was running, but he had nothing with which to blow it. His mind was in turmoil – he’d been accused of being a terrorist. It was all incomprehensible. He was scared. What the hell did they think he had done?

  Andy and Mike stayed in the interview room. They were frustrated. They agreed that they had got nothing out of their suspect. It was as if he had been expertly tutored in the art of interrogation. He gave answers, but they revealed nothing relevant to his crime. And yet the evidence they had against him was substantial.

  ‘He’s a slimy bugger,’ said Andy, ‘And a first class actor.’

  ‘Gives the impression that he ain’t got a clue why he’s here,’ replied Mike. ‘Obviously he’s been well trained.’

  ‘He is going to be a hard nut to crack,’ said Andy. ‘When do you reckon we move on to the Bishopsgate police station bombing?’

  ‘As I see it he knows damn well why he’s here, so I reckon we don’t need to tell him,’ replied Mike. ‘Anyway, we’ve got weeks before we have to charge him – my instinct is to use the time to break him.’

  ‘But time isn’t on our side,’ argued Andy. ‘Our intelligence suggests there could be a follow-up bombing. We have got to get information out of him, or more lives could be lost.’

  ‘If he isn’t going to crack soon, what’s the hurry? Shouldn’t we go for a confession, add it to all the evidence we have and secure a conviction?’ countered Mike.

  Andy looked concerned. ‘But we need information, now!’

  ‘He’ll break given time. Who wouldn’t in these surroundings? Just think of the praise we’d get,’ said Mike.

  ‘So you let another bomb go off just to prove a point and suck up to our political masters?’ replied Andy uncertainly.

  Mike relented. ‘It’s an option, but… bugger it! You’re right! We’ve got to bring things to a close as quickly as possible.’

  ‘OK, let’s see if we can’t tie this up in record time.’

  Rafi was sitting in his cell. He’d asked for a blanket, but did not get one. He was reflecting on his helpless predicament and his utter lack of rights, when his cell door suddenly swung open.

  ‘You’re wanted. Now! Get a shift on!’ bellowed the guard.

  Moments later, Rafi sat down opposite his two interrogators. He sensed they were impatient and keen to start.

  ‘We have evidence that puts you in the frame for the Bishopsgate police station bombing. We’ve got you on CCTV talking to the bomber next to the cashpoints in South Place, on Thursday lunchtime, the day before the bomb blast,’ said Andy.

  Rafi was dumbfounded. He couldn’t recall speaking to anyone. He’d been in a hurry.

  ‘Watch the tape,’ demanded Andy.

  A grainy but unmistakable picture appeared on the wallmounted screen opposite the one-way glass window.

  ‘The City of London has cameras everywhere now. The camera on the corner of Moorgate and South Place picked you up.’

  The screen showed a row of five cashpoint machines on the return frontage of the nearby Barclays bank. Moments later, there he was, joining the back of a queue in a smart suit with his neatly cut black hair. His turn came; he withdrew his money and turned. Behind him, to one side, was a man dressed in nondescript clothes with a hoodie largely obscuring his face. They talked for a minute and then the man gave him a hug. His hoodie slipped back off his head, revealing a tanned, ordinary-looking face. The CCTV footage stopped, framing the man standing right in front of him. Rafi was passing something to him, but it was largely obscured from view by the other man’s body.

  Rafi’s mind raced. He tried to recall what he had handed over. Slowly it came back to him. The man had passed him an A to Z map book and asked to be shown which underground station he should use to get to Finsbury Park. Rafi had not needed the map, and explained that Moorgate station was just round the corner, where he could catch a train straight to where he wanted to go. It had been an utter surprise to Rafi when the stranger had embraced him to show his gratitude.

  Rafi looked at the picture on the screen, bewildered.

  ‘Caught red-handed!’ beamed Andy. ‘Tell us how you know Imaad Wafeeq.’

  Rafi thought for a moment. The CCTV footage painted a very misleading picture. It made an innocent conversation look very incriminating.

  ‘I didn’t know that was his name and that was the first time I met him,’ Rafi replied. ‘I was just getting some cash for my boss, Jameel Furud.’

  ‘Cobblers!’ burst out Mike, leaning forward. ‘You can do better than that. Do you think we’re dead from the neck up?’

  Rafi saw malice in his dark eyes and sensed that the table would offer little protection.

  ‘That was the first time I’d ever seen him,’ he repeated.

  ‘Bullshit! We know that you know Imaad Wafeeq, the Bishopsgate bomber. Lying to us is pointless. Why else did he embrace you as a friend? Look at his body language.’

  Rafi was dumbstruck.

  The two interrogators fired more questions at him.

  ‘Who else was involved?’

  ‘What’s the next target?’

  They kept on at him for what seemed like hours.

  Rafi kept pleading his innocence. There was little else he could do, but it only further infuriated his interrogators. Eventually their patience ran dry. Bland answers were not what they wanted.

  Mike looked straight at Rafi; his eyes were those of a coldblooded snake. ‘Let’s get this straight: with the evidence we have against you and the new laws, you’ve next to no human rights. We can send you to Belmarsh Prison, throw the key away and leave you to rot. No one will give a toss! Foxtrot Oscar back to your cell and do some very careful thinking. When you come back, we want answers, or else…’ Mike raised his hand in the direction of the one-way glass wall. The door to the interrogation room swung open and a guard walked in.

  ‘Take him back to his cell.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied the guard, under his breath. He was ugly, seriously ugly. His face was pockmarked, his nose was bulbous and bent, and he made the dour interrogator look like a softy. He escorted Rafi to his cell in double quick time and slammed the door shut behind him.

  Rafi tried to come to terms with what he’d seen. It was absurd. He had never met that man before; he had just wanted directions. The implications shook him. Thoughts flooded through his head. The horrific bombing had taken place on Friday morning. It was now Saturday. There must be hundreds if not thousands of CCTV cameras in the City of London. How did they pinpoint his meeting with the terrorist so quickly? OK, the camera was only a couple of blocks away from where the bomb had gone off, but still Rafi couldn’t help wondering whether the police had managed to retrace the bomber’s movements, simply been lucky or been tipped off. It all seemed far-fetched.

  As his circumstances and plight struck home, his brain moved into panic mode. He realised that he was staring at the back of his dark brown hands. He was a secular Muslim, not a fanatical extremist. He surmised that his skin colour, religion and the misinterpreted CCTV evidence put him squarely in the frame.

  Slowly, Rafi regained control of his thoughts. He was in serious trouble. With the new draconian laws, it would be easy for them to hold him in this hellhole with no charges for weeks on end. He looked around at his surroundings: the bed was
solid, the floor and walls were bare and there was a slops bucket in the corner. Superficially, the cell looked fairly clean, but there was an all-pervading smell of stale urine and the feel of grime everywhere.

  The stark overhead light gave no warmth and just provided glare. It was getting to him. Its rays penetrated remorselessly into his eyes. He closed them. The illumination did not go away. It was as if the bulb had been doctored to give maximum discomfort. He was tired, but he had to keep his brain working. He had to think carefully. The only logical conclusion he could reach was that somebody had set him up. But what might he have done to make someone go to all that trouble? Nothing in his life, neither private nor professional, sprang to mind as being particularly unusual. At work things had been pretty normal… Except for the research Callum and he had been pursuing. So by process of elimination that had to be at the top of the list.

  The thud of the cell door opening caught him by surprise.

  ‘You’re wanted again,’ growled the guard.

  ‘Jump to it you little oik! Time to be on parade!’ he shouted when he noticed that Rafi wasn’t in a hurry to follow him.

  The guard wore irritability in his brutal face and didn’t try to hide his hatred for Rafi.

  ‘Get up you little sod. I bet they want your balls for dinner.’

  Rafi winced as he was pulled forcefully to his feet and pushed back down the corridor. He was stuck in a nightmare.

  ‘You said that you didn’t know the Bishopsgate bomber, Imaad Wafeeq. So why did he have one of your?20 notes in his pocket when he died? Let’s see you wriggle your way out of this one!’ barked Mike.

  ‘Yes, go on!’ said Andy. ‘And remember, we have proof that the?20 note was from the sequence you took from the cashpoint… Three policemen so far have lost their lives and two others are in intensive care.’

  Rafi did not answer.

  ‘Speak up! You knew the bomber, didn’t you?’

  Rafi remained silent.

  ‘Playing the innocent, are we?’ interjected Mike.

  ‘Do you think that we are stupid or something?’ asked Andy. ‘I am waiting for a reply.’