Karim’s father nodded. It was important that the head of the house allowed him to sit.
Jake perched on the grey L-shaped sofa. Karim sat down two seats along from him. Jake noticed that he was wearing an England cricket tracksuit. There was silence in the room.
Jake paused for moment to check he had their full attention and began, properly this time. ‘As you know, a number of people have died in London as a result of four explosions. At this stage we cannot confirm that Asif is one of them. What we do know is that identification belonging to Asif was found at the scene of the bus bombing in Tavistock Square. We are investigating the possibility that he was involved in the bombing. That’s why we are here; that’s why we have a search warrant.’
The room was silent.
‘No. Not my boy. He wouldn’t do anything like that… He’s a good boy!’ Karim’s mother said from the table. Tears rolled down her face as she spoke.
Jake already knew that the attacks had been undertaken by suicide bombers. Witnesses had described men on the Tube and the man on the bus as ‘exploding’. Jake already knew that Wasim had had explosives in the washing-machine pipe at his house; he already knew that the bus bomber had blown himself into a number of different pieces. He was convinced that the DNA sample they would take from Asif’s toothbrush – or from one of the hairs they would take from his hairbrush – would match the DNA on the fragments of body, the two stray arms and two stray legs that had been found in the square – but this wasn’t the time to talk about his opinion. He was dealing with facts.
‘We don’t know yet that he was definitely involved. We do not know if he is alive or dead. But we are going to search this property to try and help us ascertain if he was, or was not, involved.
Jake waited for a response.
‘So what? So what if his identification was there? He might be injured in a hospital somewhere. Are you searching all of the homes of the people hurt?’ Karim responded.
It was a fair question. Jake thought about it for a moment. There were so many things to consider here – one of them was that Karim could be involved, as could the mother and father. Revealing information about what police knew and didn’t know had to be controlled.
‘We found identification from three other Leeds-based people, a different set of identification, one at each of the bomb scenes in London. We are searching their homes at this moment too… The other three people are the ones you say Asif went to London with.’
‘It’s that fucking Wasim, isn’t it? That cunt! That fucking cunt! I fucking knew it… You think my brother martyred himself, don’t you? That he’s a suicide bomber?’ Karim punched the sofa repeatedly, in sheer anger.
Karim’s mother started to wail loudly and rock in her chair.
Strike while the iron is hot, Jake. Don’t wait. Use the anger, Jake’s inner voice said.
‘Why do you say that, Karim? Why do you say it’s something to do with Wasim?’ asked Jake.
‘Look at the age difference. My brother is just a kid – eighteen. Anything he’s done, he’s done for Wasim. He has some fucking spell over Asif with his stupid jihadi war stories. He’s a cunt. His fucking family are going to pay for this,’ Karim said through gritted teeth. ‘I’ve been to see Wasim’s brother – we almost had a fight. His brother reckons he don’t know where he is either… They were supposed to go to London on the sixth, but that got called off at the last minute. Car trouble, Asif said. They went on the seventh instead…’
Jake saw Karim look at his dad. The pair made eye contact. It was subtle. There was a slight nod from Asif’s father.
Karim stood up.
‘Come… I found some stuff in my brother’s bedroom… It might help you find out what’s happened to him.’
Jake stood up alongside Karim. ‘OK, show me,’ he replied.
14
Tuesday
12 July 2005
0600 hours
Holbeck, Leeds, West Yorkshire
Karim led Jake upstairs and into a small box room at the front of the house. It contained a single bed. At the foot of the bed was a narrow wardrobe.
The room was immaculate – like the rest of the house. On top of a light green bedspread sat two mobile phones and a piece of paper.
‘I found those on top of his wardrobe over the weekend – I’ve not seen them before.’
Karim pointed at two grey Nokia handsets and the sheet of paper. Jake was careful not to touch them with his bare hands; he left them lying on the bed.
‘Who’s handled the phones and the piece of paper other than you, Karim?’
‘No one – just me. I’ve called the two numbers on that note and some of the numbers from the phones to ask if they know anything – if they know where my brother is.’ Karim stared off into the air. He began to cry silent tears.
‘What have these people said to you?’
Karim wiped his cheeks with the cuff of his tracksuit. There was a pause while he inhaled and composed himself.
‘The one with the name Shaggy against it – he says he lives in Sheffield and reckons he don’t know my brother. He hung up on me. The Shahid guy says he knows my brother from the mosque but doesn’t know where he is… Thing is, right, that’s my brother’s handwriting on that piece of paper. I’ve never heard of these people; never heard him talk about them… Who the fuck are they?
‘Same with the phones – I’ve called some of the numbers stored in the contacts… same story. People I’ve never heard of… One of them says he’s in Egypt, says he don’t know my brother, but that he knows Wasim. Says he rented a flat to him in Leeds. I’ve been round there, but there’s no answer…’
Jake remembered the morning of 7 July – he’d seen Wasim leave his Dewsbury home. He’d driven toward Leeds. Jake had lost sight of him but he’d been somewhere – why would Wasim rent a flat in Leeds when he had a house in Dewsbury?
‘Karim, I need the address of this flat. I need you to show me where it is.’
Jake motioned for Karim to lead the way back down the stairs. Karim went to speak with his father, who was in the kitchen. Jake caught snatches of Urdu. His father nodded at whatever Karim had said to him then followed his son out into the hallway.
‘He will take you – you find who did this to my boy. He was just bloody eighteen, you know,’ Karim’s father said to Jake.
‘Thank you. I will find who did this. I promise you.’ Jake nodded at Mr Rahman who appeared to be coming to the realisation that he might never see his son again. ‘Is there anything else I need to know?’
Mrs Rahman stood up from the table and tried to speak through her sobs. ‘My son – he come back from Pakistan… from wedding… February… He so thin. He always sick. I buy him new clothes… old ones too big for him… his hair, it was lighter, blonde at the front… not my boy,’ she said as her grief turned to wails. Jake could hardly understand her through the tears.
He thanked the Rahmans for their help and grabbed Lenny as they left the house with Karim.
15
Tuesday
12 July 2005
0630 hours
Holbeck, Leeds, West Yorkshire
Karim’s road had been blocked off to the public at either end, to stop the press taking photos.
This place was alien to Jake. The houses were packed in rows back to back. Jake was used to seeing houses with front gardens and rear gardens, but here there were neither – two houses sandwiched together, pavement, road, then two houses sandwiched together, repeated over and over, row after row.
Karim sat in the passenger seat of the BMW as Jake turned the ignition.
‘They’re talking of flattening this whole place and building new homes here, flash apartments and all that. Be better than this slum, maybe even make some jobs too,’ Karim said as they drove into Leeds.
Karim directed Jake to the north-west sid
e of the city, close to the university. They drove into a road called Victoria Park and began climbing a hill. After about two hundred yards, they passed a modern-looking mosque on the right-hand side.
‘That place there… number twenty-two.’ Karim pointed to a 1980s development directly opposite the mosque.
Jake stopped the car halfway up the hill.
‘I came here yesterday – there was no answer,’ said Karim.
‘Wait here…’ Jake got out of the car and walked back in the direction Karim had pointed.
A block of flats, on several different levels, zigzagged up the hill. Eventually Jake found number twenty-two – it had two doors, both red. Jake looked to see which entrance had the hinges visible on the outside – the back door. It would open outwards – and would be the hardest work to smash in.
To one side of the flat, a row of windows was hidden slightly by box hedges. Jake noticed that the leaves nearest the windows were a different colour to the rest of hedge – sickly and yellowed, and some areas were even turning brown.
Jake tried to look into the window directly behind the most decayed area of foliage. There was a net curtain obscuring his view. He rapped hard on the window and waited.
No response.
Jake looked at his watch. It was 0645 hours. He needed a search warrant. It would take an hour to complete the requisite paperwork and then the courts didn’t open until 1000 hours. That was way too long in these circumstances. He had to make other plans.
16
Tuesday
12 July 2005
0805 hours
Headingley, Leeds, West Yorkshire
‘I swear by almighty God that the content of this, my information, is true to the best of my knowledge and belief.’ Jake stood with a copy of the Bible in his left hand; his right hand was held up like a Native American Indian from a Spaghetti Western.
The magistrate was a slim, spindly woman in her fifties with rollers in her hair. She had been trying to get ready for work when Jake had arrived. She sported a silk paisley dressing gown with a set of pastel pyjamas underneath.
They stood in the dining room of her detached house in an affluent suburb on the outskirts of Leeds. A Jack Russell dog sat at Jake’s feet, looking up expectantly at him and panting.
Jake always found out-of-hours, urgent search-warrant applications amusing. Each force area had a rota of on-call magistrates. Mrs Jackson was on the list for today.
Completing the paperwork in record time, Jake had briefly outlined the events in London from the previous Thursday and the circumstances of his morning so far. Then he’d driven to Mrs Jackson’s house as fast as humanly possible. It was rare that a search-warrant application was declined, but not unknown – and police couldn’t legally enter the property without one. This one was vital and desperately pressing. Jake mentally crossed his fingers and watched the pendulum of Mrs Jackson’s carriage clock swing to and fro as it sat on the mantelpiece, the minutes ticking away.
‘Thank you, Inspector – is there anyone inside this address at the moment?’ asked Mrs Jackson, sitting down at the table with a cup of coffee.
‘Not that we are aware of, ma’am. I’ve knocked there this morning – there’s no reply. We’ve called in our bomb-disposal experts,’ Jake said as he placed the Bible down on the polished dark wood table.
‘Sit down, Inspector – please.’ Mrs Jackson pointed at the chair closest to him.
The Jack Russell jumped excitedly at his legs as Jake pulled out the chair and sat down.
‘Do you really think there’s a bomb in there?’ Mrs Jackson’s eyes were as wide as saucers.
‘We don’t know. There’s something very odd about the rental of this premises; it’s not like the other warrants we executed this morning – they were family homes with people living inside. This is different. The bushes are dead or discoloured outside the windows of the flat. I think it’s down to some form of chemical that’s been used inside there – we need to expect the worse.’ Jake attempted to smile reassuringly at her as he finished his explanation.
His mobile started to vibrate. It was Lenny calling – Jake had left him on guard outside the suspect property.
Jake looked at Mrs Jackson and she nodded to indicate that she was happy for him to take the call. A little bit of court etiquette went a long way, even in a magistrate’s home.
‘Lenny… you OK?’
‘Everything’s fine. No movement at number twenty-two. Everyone’s here. I’ve got ten uniform from West Yorks and EXPO have just arrived. We’re ready to rumble. You got the warrant for this place?’ he asked.
EXPO stood for explosives officer. In London they were police officers; up here the West Yorkshire force usually had to organise for a team from the Army to come in. Jake had planned ahead for this eventuality with two EXPO officers from the Met ready on standby. They’d arrived in Leeds on Sunday and had been waiting for the call.
‘The magistrate hasn’t authorised the warrant yet, Lenny…’ Jake looked at Mrs Jackson as he spoke.
Mrs Jackson picked up the pen, signed at the bottom of the search warrant and nodded her head.
‘She’s authorised it now – start evacuating the premises nearby, get the roads shut off. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’
17
Tuesday
12 July 2005
0915 hours
Victoria Park, Leeds, West Yorkshire
Jake briefed the EXPO as they walked around the exterior of the flat. They’d knocked on the windows and doors several times to no avail – the place appeared to be empty. Geoff Wilson was an ex-Army ordnance expert approaching retirement with just six months left in the job. He was staying at the same hotel as Jake in Leeds city centre – they’d met and shared a few beers at the hotel bar the previous night.
‘I don’t think we should use either of the doors as a point of entry. We’ll go through the window – just in case they’ve wired it up for us. You happy with the guy that showed you this place? It could be a set-up, Jake,’ said Geoff.
‘I can’t double-check everything that he’s said right now, Geoff, but my gut feeling is he’s telling the truth – it’s unlikely to be a set-up in my opinion. We’ve evacuated everyone in the rest of the complex as a precaution anyway.’
‘What do you know about the internal layout of the premises, Jake?’
‘I understand the neighbours have told my DS that it’s a two-bedroomed flat. Six separate rooms in total, including an entrance hall. The area where the garden door is – that’s the living area. The area where the bushes have died by the window are bedrooms.’
‘OK, we’ll break the living-room window with the robot just in case you’re wrong about your man. We can use the cameras on the robot’s arm to have a good look and check that it’s safe before we get too close ourselves. If he is leading us into a trap, I don’t fancy being nearby should the whole place go up.’ Geoff winked at him.
Jake smiled. ‘OK – good advice.’
Jake had seen the robots in action once before – they were remote-controlled vehicles that looked like small tanks.
Jake thought back to his explosive-device training. The four main parts of a bomb operated in a specific order to detonate in a controlled way on command. The power source, a trigger, an initiator and the main charge.
Jake knew all too well that in suicide missions the trigger was the suicide bomber, who simply connected up the power source to the initiator or fuse – basically like that on a stick of dynamite.
More sophisticated devices involved a remote trigger for the initiator. Sometimes these triggers could be physical – as simple as someone opening a door. Outside this flat now, Jake knew they had to be careful not to start that chain reaction – and be far enough away to survive a blast if they did.
Jake and Geoff walked the hundred yards back to the outer cor
don where the EXPO van was parked.
In the back of the large, Luton-bodied Ford Transit van sat two robots – one designed for small spaces and the other designed for bigger, heavier, more robust work. It had taken about an hour for Geoff and his co-pilot, Mike, to set the robots up and check that they were working correctly.
The unmarked van also contained a small desk with three screens above it. On the desk were two joysticks and a computer. One joystick controlled the movement of the robot’s caterpillar tracks and its direction; the other controlled the robotic arm.
Geoff and Jake watched the screens silently, as Mike began moving the larger of the two robots toward the flat. It edged up the hill and down the concrete path toward the red door. Tape on the path showed the route that Geoff had painstakingly marked out that morning for the robot to follow.
As it reached the window, the robot turned slightly to find a better angle. It needed to line itself up with the glass that it was programmed to break.
‘Here goes…’ said Mike.
He pushed the joystick forward and the robot suddenly lurched toward the flat.
Jake held his breath, willing against any sort of detonation.
A long, rigid, spiked arm, which held a diamond point at its tip, rammed against the window like a lance as the robot drove directly at it. The camera on the robot jolted and wobbled as the spike made contact with the glass.
They could hear it breaking. Geoff looked skyward and smiled.
Several large triangles of glass hit the concrete and appeared on the video screen in the van.
Geoff asked Mike to stop for a moment so that they could assess the situation.
The top camera panned over the entire window. It was like a starburst from the point of impact; large triangular shapes of glass separating from each other, getting bigger as the crack moved toward the edges of the pane.
THE THESEUS PARADOX: The stunning breakthrough thriller based on real events, from the Scotland Yard detective turned author. Page 6
