35
Friday
22 July 2005
1300 hours
Sullivan House, New Southgate, north London
Jake pulled up at the sixties tower block in north London for the second time that week. This time around, though, there were several ATB officers by the communal front door, drinking coffee from takeaway cups. It reminded Jake of a picket line.
‘What are you lot doing?’ he snapped.
‘Just grabbing a cup of coffee, guv,’ said one of the more senior DCs.
‘What enquiries have you done? What have you found out?’
There was silence.
‘Throw that fucking coffee away. Get your fucking arses moving and start banging on doors. I want answers. Who lived here? Who were their friends? What car did they drive? Where do they work? There are terrorists on the loose and a man’s been shot dead; you’re standing there drinking coffee. Move it. Now!’
They threw their coffee into a bin and walked off. Sometimes you needed to crack the whip to get people moving. Even in situations like this, thought Jake.
He got back into his car and called Claire.
‘Jake – I’m sorry. Thank you. I flagged the address up as best I could. It was given to a team to look at. Not fast enough. Thank the Lord you got there and messed up their explosives,’ she blurted out.
‘I don’t get how you can have all that intelligence and not see the wood for the trees. It was obvious,’ replied Jake.
‘I’ll call you back,’ said Claire. ‘I have some things I need to sort out.’
It was too muggy to sit in the vehicle. He got out and leant against the side, wondering when Claire would call him back with an update. Bruise-coloured clouds shrouded the sun and darkened everything, including Jake’s mood.
Jake was annoyed with Claire, but he was also annoyed at himself for being annoyed with her, which made it even worse. They’d been seeing each other again on and off for a while now. When they were together it was intense – just like it had been when they were at university. Yet he’d been fighting with himself not to become too involved, because she’d given him no indication that she felt the same as he did.
They had good times, laughter, great sex and interesting conversations. Jake liked her. Maybe he liked her too much? But recently he’d seen little of her. She didn’t seem to want to commit to anything more. Her behaviour was unsettling. It meant that he had begun to enjoy any attention he could get from other females. A bit like the rah-rah-skirted woman in the club – before the guilt set in.
Jake hated himself for becoming emotionally involved with anyone, but he desperately needed to be needed. He didn’t really understand why. Perhaps there was an emotional deficit there as a result of his father not being at home when he was little.
Jake mostly satisfied his needs with work. There was always someone that needed him at work. And when there wasn’t and Claire wasn’t around? His flirty nature reared its ugly head to stave off the loneliness. But that led to him getting more annoyed at himself that the desire for praise and attention crossed over into his private life. He’d failed. Mustn’t let that happen.
‘Do some work, Jake. Don’t think about it!’ he told himself.
An elderly lady walking her poodle headed toward him along a pavement made half of wonky, grey paving slabs and half of well-levelled tarmac. The dog had chosen the smooth side and had given the old lady the rough. As the fluffy white canine reached Jake’s car, it cocked his leg and urinated over his rear tyre. Jake laughed; the woman smiled back at him.
‘It’s funny how dogs have to do that, isn’t it?’ he said with a chuckle.
‘Yes. He never fails, this one. If there’s a car, he has to do his business on the tyre!’
The old girl, with hair as snowy as that of her dog, must have been in her eighties. To Jake’s ears she sounded like a local. The clear north-London twang gave it away. There was no hint of any Kent or Essex rural country burr – as was more evident with Londoners based in areas to the south and east.
‘I can tell you’ve lived here your entire life,’ said Jake with a big smile.
‘How can you tell that?’ She was genuinely interested. The fluffy white dog was now sniffing round Jake’s shoes. He began to worry it might cock his leg again.
‘I’m a detective,’ winked Jake. ‘It’s my job to know these things.’
The old lady gave out a tinkly little laugh. ‘Are you here about them lot on the top floor? Those Mussulman bombers?’ she asked.
Jake was startled. He looked at her straight on, but she seemed neither jokey nor senile. Her body was old and frail, but her mind was clearly as sharp as anything.
‘I am,’ he fired back. ‘Do you know them?’
‘Pain in the arse, they are! Making noise. Coming and going at all hours of the day. Not like us. Have you checked on their friend in Gilbert House?’ The woman motioned toward an almost identical 1960s tower block, a few streets away.
‘No. How do you know they have a friend in there?’ asked Jake, curious now.
‘Edna. My sister Edna lives in that block; lived there for thirty years. I’ve lived here for over twenty. We’ve never had any trouble here. Them Mussulmans move in and now look, police everywhere. Been moved out of my home ‘for my own safety’. I’ve seen them going in and out of an address by Edna’s. Not sure of the number. Ask the caretaker. Number four he lives at. He knows them.’
The woman had barely finished speaking before Jake was on his toes, thanking her as he sprinted in the direction of Gilbert House.
Jake arrived at flat four, Gilbert House. For once he didn’t actually know what he was going to ask. He was out of breath. He banged on the door. A man in a jumper that Val Doonican would have been proud of answered.
‘I’m DI Jake Flannagan. Can I come in and talk to you please?’ Jake held up his leather-bound warrant card. The man nodded and allowed him into the small flat. The swirly carpet was almost identical to the jumper – green, brown and orange.
‘I’m investigating the attempted bombings yesterday. We’re working in Sullivan House, top floor,’ said Jake. He needed to know that the man understood the gravity of the situation before he continued.
‘I know they’ve sealed it off. I suppose you want to know about their friend’s place over here?’ asked the caretaker.
Jake wondered if he was the only person in the entire area that didn’t know what was actually going on.
‘Yes. What number is it?’
‘Forty-three. The flat was empty, then I saw one of the Sullivan House guys go in there this morning. The big one – really tall fella, he is. Came out wearing the full gear like those Muslim ladies wear. I don’t know what it’s called, that outfit. But top to toe. Black robe thing. You know.’
‘How long ago?’ asked Jake.
‘About twenty minutes ago.’
‘Which way did he go?’
‘Walked up toward the shops on the main road.’
Jake raced as fast as his feet would carry him, up toward the main road in the direction that the ‘big woman’ in the burka had headed. Twenty minutes was quite a head start, but how fast could a very tall man in a burka move, without drawing too much attention to himself?
36
Friday
22 July 2005
1405 hours
New Southgate, north London
As he ran, Jake called the Reserve Room for assistance. There was no one nearby to help, but a request was lodged for local uniform to be on the lookout.
He reached the end of the estate and hit the main road.
‘Left or right, Jake? Take your pick?’ he said.
On the opposite corner was a sweet shop with a shabby red awning advertising soft drinks. The place looked tired and dilapidated. Window stickers from the previous November still proclaimed �
�Fireworks sold here’, but the door was open and they looked like they were still trading. Jake scoured the outside of the building and spotted a small CCTV camera looking back at him. He dashed across the road and in through the open door. An elderly Indian woman with a tie-dyed sari draped over her right shoulder sat on a high stool behind the raised counter. There was no time for pleasantries or introductions.
‘Police. Your CCTV, does it work?’ Jake pointed at the camera.
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Does it record?’ Jake asked. There were many systems that didn’t record because they weren’t set up right. It always amazed Jake. What was the point of CCTV that’s not watched or recorded?
‘Kumar! Kumar! Kumar?’ called the woman up a set of stairs to her left.
A twenty-something lad with a goatee beard and ripped jeans appeared. The woman spoke frenetically to him in Gujarati before he turned to Jake.
‘Yes, mate what can I do for you?’ asked Kumar, with a thick Cockney accent.
‘Your CCTV, does it work and record?’
‘Yeah, course it does, mate.’
‘I need to see if it’s caught someone walking in the road opposite. Can you show me it?’
‘Sure – come with me.’
He led Jake into a storeroom at the back of the shop, filled almost to the brim with boxes. In one corner sat a precarious-looking shelf holding a computer and a monitor.
Kumar sat on a large box of Walkers crisps. He’d logged on before Jake could even blink. He navigated through the windows, menus and submenus of the computer to access the footage. Jake was pleased that he’d met Kumar.
‘How far do you need to look back, mate?’
Kumar pulled up four cameras. The screen split into quarters to show each of the different views.
‘Twenty minutes, half hour? I’m looking for a big woman in a burka. Try that camera there, the one that catches the street.’ Jake tapped the top left of the monitor’s screen.
Within minutes, Kumar had footage of a very tall, fully burka-clad silhouette walking toward the shop. The figure was carrying a white handbag. The time on the footage showed 1355 hours. Jake checked his watch; it was 1415 hours. The figure approached the junction and turned to its right. Jake had exactly what he was after, the direction of travel.
‘Kumar, you’re a star! Well done. That’s just what I needed!’ Jake shook his hand warmly and bolted out of the shop.
37
Friday
22 July 2005
1425 hours
New Southgate, north London
Jake began to sweat as he sprinted along the pavement in the heat of the late afternoon. He slowed down as he reached some playing fields at the end of the road. There was a small car park which sloped down to bushes and a wooded area.
It was a wide open space. There was nowhere else for the guy to have gone; he had to have walked to the bottom of the playing fields.
When Jake got to the bottom, there was a steep verge down onto the North Circular Road. Two lanes sat side by side with stop-start traffic crammed into every available piece of space. A sea of different coloured cars and vehicles panned out before him. A smog of traffic fumes hung in the air.
Jake ran down the verge to the main road.
Had the guy in the burka met someone here? Got into a car? There was a bridge and a bus stop on the other side. Jake looked up and down the road as he tried to catch his breath. There was no sign of the burka man on any pavement. There was no CCTV to help this time either.
Jake stood there. What now? Where was he going?
Jake walked back up the verge, which gave him an elevated view of the road across the stationary traffic.
There were four kids watching him from the playing field – he’d run past them on his way down to the road. They’d been playing football. One was the goalkeeper in front of a makeshift goal created out of BMX bikes.
Jake jogged toward the boys.
They looked about twelve years of age at the most. Two were white with freckled faces. One was Asian looking and the other black with braided hair. The black boy, who was closest to the ball, instinctively picked it up as Jake got nearer. It made Jake wonder how many times they had had their football taken away by a man in a suit.
‘Boys, I’m a policeman,’ he said as he took out his warrant card and showed them. ‘Did you see a really big woman in a black dress with her face and head covered? She came past here a bit ago?’
The group of boys stood in a semicircle. They looked back at him blankly.
‘Nah,’ said the black boy, holding the football protectively to his chest.
Jake exhaled loudly. They were clearly more interested in their game.
‘OK. Thanks,’ said Jake, as he turned away from the boys.
As he started back up the incline toward the sweet shop, the black kid shouted after him in his north London twang.
‘You meant a burka didn’t ya, mate? Not a dress! A burka with the veil and that?’
Jake was pleasantly surprised that the kid knew the right terminology. He stopped and turned.
‘Yes. I did. Did you see a big, tall woman on the road over there in a burka?’
‘Nah,’ shouted back the kid as he practised his keepie-uppies.
Jake gave up, waved his hand to thank them and carried on walking. The trail had gone cold.
The smallest white kid with freckles shouted after him. ‘I tell you what though, mate – we did see a massive big fella wearing one about ten minutes ago!’
Jake spun back round. ‘What? Where?’
‘Down there at that bus stop – got on the bus. It’s number A232 – that’s the only bus that stops there. Every fifteen minutes,’ said the black kid, pointing at the bus stop on the other side of the road, beyond the bridge.
‘We was laughing at him. There’s no way that was a woman. Way too big. And he was walking like a man. It was a man! You sure you ain’t looking for a man in a burka?’
‘I was. I am! Thanks, lads!’
38
Friday
22 July 2005
1435 hours
A406 North Circular Road, north London
Jake turned and legged it back down the verge. He sprinted up the ramp and onto the bridge. Above the sea of traffic again, he could see a bus coming toward the stop. It was the next A232. It had to be. The kid said it was the only bus that stopped there.
Jake ran down the ramp leading to the opposite side of the road. The bus had slowed and was caught in heavy traffic, not moving. Jake picked his way between the cars and down the middle of the stationary traffic, making a beeline for the driver’s side of the bus. The driver, a fat white guy with a ruddy complexion wearing a maroon tank top and a white short-sleeved shirt, pushed open his window.
It suddenly struck Jake that the burka man might be carrying a bomb in his white handbag, or potentially wearing a suicide vest.
‘Police. The bus in front of you, the A232 on this route – do you know who’s driving it?’ Jake asked.
‘That’ll be Arthur Clack. He’s a good bloke. Is he OK?’ asked the driver from his window.
‘I need you to pull over and get him on your radio. Can you do that? Now. Right now!
The driver shook his head. ‘The control room will have to do it. I can’t contact him directly from my radio.’
‘I need it done straight away. I’m from the Anti-Terrorist Branch.’ Jake flashed his badge. ‘There’s a terrorist suspect on his bus. A man wearing a burka, disguised as a woman.’
‘OK, OK! I’m pulling in,’ said the driver as he indicated, pulled the bus onto the pavement and began talking into the radio mike in his cab.
Jake waited anxiously. The seconds seemed like hours.
‘The control room wants to know who you are. They want to speak to you before the
y contact Arthur and stop his bus.’
‘Get them to call me on my mobile now.’ Jake recited his number to the driver who relayed it via his radio.
Jake’s handset flashed and buzzed in his hand.
‘DI Jake Flannagan. Who am I talking to?’
‘Scott Rodman. Duty Manager, Mainline Passenger Transport.’
‘Scott, there’s no time to waste here. There’s a suspected terrorist on Arthur Clack’s bus. A tall man dressed in a burka. He may be armed and he may have a bomb. I need you to get hold of Arthur right now, keep him calm, and find out if the burka man is still on the bus. Do it now, Scott. Call me back.’ Jake waited for a response.
‘OK. I’m doing it.’
The line went dead.
39
Friday
22 July 2005
1455 hours
A406 North Circular Road, north London
Jake’s nerves were getting the better of him. He kept his eyes glued up ahead, expecting to hear an explosion and see a plume of smoke.
The traffic was moving again. He couldn’t wait any longer. Seconds and minutes were important. Lives were at risk. He couldn’t have another busload of passengers blown to pieces.
‘Everybody off the bus, now!’ shouted Jake at the top of his voice down the aisle of the single-decker vehicle. ‘Now! Get off the bus. Police!’
The fifteen or so passengers alighted from the vehicle, followed by the driver. Jake grabbed him and led him back onto the bus.
‘Mate, you’re gonna have to drive. As fast as you can after the A232 up ahead,’ said Jake, as he nudged the chubby guy toward the driver’s cabin.
‘But…’
‘If you don’t drive it, I will. And that will just be more painful for you to watch than it will be for me to do. Now move!’
The driver closed the pneumatic doors and quickly put the bus into gear. He pulled off the pavement with a huge crunch and careered into the inside lane. Jake clung to the side of his cab.
The traffic had thinned slightly and the driver was clearly in his element, flashing his lights and sounding the horn. ‘Get out of the fucking way, you stupid old biddy!’ he shouted, gesticulating through the window at an old lady in the outside lane, blocking their path.
THE THESEUS PARADOX: The stunning breakthrough thriller based on real events, from the Scotland Yard detective turned author. Page 11
