‘As far as I know,’ shrugged Jake.
‘Well, I still think this person is showing all the signs of gas gangrene. It’s the sort of thing that we would have expected to see two hundred years ago. I mean, even by the time of the Falklands War in 1982, we’d stopped hearing about it. There wasn’t a single case reported throughout that whole conflict. That’s how far things had come,’ Bowman said with a frown. ‘But if he’s not been to Iraq, and they’ve not shipped any over, then I can only assume that this case must have been caused by some sort of accidental contamination, rather than a designated biological weapon. Clostridium perfringens can be prevalent in black pepper, and we know that was a key ingredient in these bombs.’
Jake was reminded of the spicy, pungent fragrance.
‘We’ve tested the remaining bomb ingredients that were left in the flat,’ said Bowman, ‘and nothing was flagged up. But it is possible that they used an entirely different batch and disposed of the packaging somewhere else.’
Jake looked quizzically at Bowman. ‘Hang on. So you said this gas gangrene could be treated by antibiotics? If it can be treated by antibiotics, why has this amputee got it? I’m pretty sure that when they amputate, the patient is pumped full of broad-spectrum drugs by the hospital. Why did this patient get this condition?’
‘It’s a good question, one that I have struggled with myself. The usual antibiotic treatment for Clostridium perfringens is penicillin. Penicillin normally knocks it on the head. But sometimes antibiotics alone are not effective because they may not penetrate infected tissues sufficiently. If this amputee was potentially allergic to penicillin, they’ll have most certainly been treated with an alternative, probably clindamycin. However, it’s becoming increasingly clear that clindamycin alone is not always successful in treating this bacterium. The experts at Porton Down tell me they’re currently seeing new strains of Clostridium perfringens that have become resistant to certain antibiotics.
‘I’ve looked at the blast pattern and I’ve looked at where this patient was located on the seating plan in relation to the bomber. I’m wondering – if the bus bomber had recently been abroad, could he have picked up this germ and been carrying it in his body?’
Jake thought back to what he knew about the four bombers and nodded in agreement. ‘Yes, I can see that being plausible, Professor. I researched why a couple of the bombers lost so much weight. Turns out that they’d had stomach bugs, which they’d picked up from training camps when travelling abroad. Wasim, for example. We know he became so ill back in 2001 on a visit to Pakistan that he had to return home to the UK. And Asif, he lost a load of weight between November 2004 and February of this year. His normal clothes didn’t fit him. His mum said she didn’t recognise him when he got back from his trip. He somehow picked up something really nasty out there. Friends and relatives said he was constantly complaining of feeling ill.’
The Professor raised his eyebrows. ‘So my thinking is that this bug could possibly have been expelled from the bus bomber’s body, as a result of the explosion, and contaminated the bomb victims’ wounds,’ he reasoned.
Lenny looked nonplussed. ‘Well, we found the bus bomber, Asif Rahman, in a number of pieces, but I know for a fact that his bowels and intestines were intact. His torso was on the roof of the BMA’s building.’
‘How on earth did you know that his body was up there?’ asked Professor Bowman incredulously.
‘The team said they were being plagued by an enormous flock of seagulls in the square. The birds were very interested in something on the roof. When we got some of the guys up on a cherry picker to have a look, they spotted a torso and we DNA’d the remains,’ grimaced Lenny.
‘Then perhaps the device on the bus was in contact with faecal matter infected with Clostridium perfringens? Did the bombers defecate onto the bombs or into their rucksacks, for instance?’
Jake looked at the floor intently. There was something at the back of his mind gnawing away at him. It suddenly came to him. ‘The trousers, Lenny!’
Lenny turned to him with a puzzled look on his face. ‘What d’you mean?’
Jake was getting animated now. ‘The petrol station CCTV at Woodall Services on the M1! You remember, Lenny. When they were travelling down to London early on the morning of 7/7 in the Nissan Micra? The CCTV showed Asif wearing white tracksuit bottoms as he got out to pay the cashier for the fuel. Then when we saw him again on the CCTV at Luton train station, three hours later, he had dark tracksuit bottoms on. We never found those white tracksuit bottoms. Like I said in that meeting, he must have had a little accident on the way!’
‘You’re right!’ said Lenny. ‘The mysterious case of the missing white tracksuit bottoms! He’s obviously shat himself and got changed. Must have been covered in it.’
‘And then he put his filthy trousers in his rucksack with the device,’ said Jake.
‘So you believe that the bus bomber was suffering from a severe stomach upset, defecated in his tracksuit bottoms and after changing into a clean pair, he stowed the soiled garment in the rucksack with the bomb?’ asked the Professor.
‘That’s exactly what I think could have happened,’ said Jake, ‘and when the bomb exploded, the faecal matter on the trousers could have contaminated the entire scene with the bacterium. There’s us thinking that they were terrorist masterminds. Thinking they’d created a bomb containing a biological agent, hell bent on spreading an epidemic. When actually that bacterium was there totally by chance. All because Asif had a dodgy tummy. They didn’t hatch a deliberate dirty-bomb plot at all!’
There was a moment of silence as the three of them took this information in.
The Professor broke the lull. ‘Well, it’s certainly an interesting theory, but just a theory nonetheless. You’re right to say that it doesn’t seem like a deliberate dirty bomb, but I wouldn’t like to place my bets on exactly what caused the gas gangrene – it’s a highly unusual set of circumstances.’
A split second later and Jake’s brain was whirring again. ‘So what’s the prognosis, Prof.? How do we help to get rid of the gas gangrene?’
‘I’ll speak with the biological weapons people at Porton Down and get them to liaise with the hospital medical staff directly. They’d be the right experts to speak to in terms of creating the ideal treatment programme. They have all the latest research on the newer resistant strains of Clostridium perfringens. Hyperbaric oxygen therapy has had good results in tandem with special cocktails of the newer antibiotics.’
Lenny and Jake thanked the Professor and left, still reeling slightly from what they’d discovered.
77
Tuesday
23 August 2005
0900 hours
Dudley Hill police station, Bradford, West Yorkshire
The West Yorkshire team had convened to converse via video link with the meeting room back at Scotland Yard. Their Tuesday-morning meeting was once again dominated by the bomb factory at Victoria Park.
‘We’ve removed roughly half of the items out of Victoria Park in the past six weeks. It’s a very slow process. We’re taking photos of each exhibit. The photos are being sent to the MIR for actioning and, as you’ll see in front of you, we’re continually forwarding copies up to the Leeds team,’ Ian Thetford, the exhibits officer, said into the camera.
‘Thanks, Ian,’ replied Jake. ‘I have a few questions about the bomb factory, having seen it first-hand. There’s a lot of stuff in that flat. It’s knee-deep in junk. You can’t even move room to room in some places because there’s no clear walkway. How did they use it as a factory with that much stuff in there? It would have been impossible to get anything done! Most of it looks like it’s just been lobbed in there as an afterthought. It’s as if there might have been another location, but this was all that they wanted us to find.’
‘I can see your point, Jake, but the place is teeming with evidence for us to get t
o grips with. The forensic explosives lab has confirmed our belief that the hydrogen peroxide was smelted in there. The bedroom area has been subjected to extreme heat, so much so that the paintwork on the door frame has bubbled up. The windows had to be kept open at all times because of the fumes. They used masking tape to secure the net curtains to the window frame to stop people looking in. It was definitively and without question the location in which they manufactured the hydrogen-peroxide-based explosives.’
‘But…’ Jake was about to ask Ian another question when he was interrupted by the voice of Denswood, who was chairing the meeting as usual from the London end.
‘Thank you, Ian. Thank you, Jake. So this week’s actions will be sent out by the MIR. Same time again next week please, folks,’ he concluded. The screen in Bradford went black. The meeting was over. They’d cut the link in London.
78
Tuesday
23 August 2005
1400 hours
Victoria Quarter, Leeds city centre, West Yorkshire
Jake sipped his posh latte under an expanse of glass that was framed by gilded mosaics and wrought iron. The upmarket boutiques and restaurants in the ornate, restored arcade made Jake feel a bit like he was back in London. The Crystal Palace of the north, he thought.
Comfy seats and rich strong coffee were all very well but it was actually the gorgeous, blue-eyed Latvian waitress that kept him coming back here.
Len plonked himself down opposite Jake.
‘Back here again, are we, Jake?’ smirked Len, as Jake watched the waitress saunter past, clad in a tight black dress.
‘I could masturbate about the coffee alone here, never mind the waitress,’ Jake winked back, as he polished off his first latte of the afternoon.
‘I’ve been looking at the Victoria Park stuff,’ said Lenny, changing the subject, his voice more hushed now.
‘Oh yeah?’ asked Jake.
‘There’s a couple of things that bother me…’ Len watched as the waitress returned. ‘Two lattes, please, my love. One for me, and one for your stalker here,’ Len said, cocking his head in Jake’s direction as he spoke. The waitress giggled as she shimmied off to fetch their order.
Len continued, ‘The day we first found the Victoria Park flat, Karim Rahman showed us those phones and that piece of paper he’d found on top of Asif’s wardrobe. D’you remember?’
‘Yes, I remember.’
‘I checked with the MIR. They’ve not done anything on those two telephone numbers yet. That information has been totally overlooked.’
‘Jesus!’ said Jake in disbelief.
‘Karim called all the numbers in those phones’ contact lists. He was desperately hunting for his missing brother. Some of the people he got through to said they knew Asif. But the two guys who gave Karim the biggest runaround were the ones whose phone numbers were written on that note he found. Their names are Shahid and Shaggy.
Jake smiled at the waitress as she placed the lattes on the table.
‘Karim first tried the bloke called Shaggy, who said he was from Sheffield. He said he didn’t know Asif, and apparently acted quite bizarrely on the phone. But they had definitely spoken several times before the bombings if you look at the phone records. They certainly did know each other,’ said Lenny, with cream from the latte he’d started to drink on the end of his nose.
He continued, ‘I did a subscriber check on Shaggy’s number. It came back as a pay as you go phone and no subscriber was listed. I’ve traced a possible address in Sheffield for a Shaggy. We could go and check him out? We have the handset’s IMEI details. It might turn something up?’
‘Lunch in Sheffield it is tomorrow then, Len. Good work. But wipe that fucking cream off your nose. If it doesn’t work out with Claire, you’re embarrassing me in front of the future Mrs Flannagan, you knob!’ Jake looked sideways at Len and then up at the Latvian waitress standing in the doorway.
Len laughed and dabbed at the end of his nose with his serviette.
79
Wednesday
24 August 2005
0800 hours
M1 South to Sheffield
The weather had been glorious for months. Jake wondered if 2005 would be remembered for just three things: its sunshine, London winning an Olympic bid and mass murder on home soil.
His head hurt again, but that was normal these days. He was spending close to £700 a week getting drunk in Leeds city centre during evening hours.
Lenny was driving. It was a good job. Jake imagined that his own blood-alcohol level was probably still well over the drink-drive limit. Lenny was well known in the force for his habit of not concentrating and he frequently went the wrong way, but the M1 to Sheffield was an easy journey, even for him.
They wound their way south down the motorway in the BMW.
‘So what do we know about this bloke, Len?’ asked Jake.
‘Nothing much. He’s called Shaggy. It’s a long shot but you never know,’ Lenny continued, looking ahead as he drove.
‘Fuck me, Lenny, it’s a bit on the light side, isn’t it? He has the same name? That’s it, is it?’
‘You make your own luck, Jake. You’ve got to be in it to win it, like you always say. This is the only way we’ll find out if it’s the right bloke or not, isn’t it?’
Jake was in no mood to argue. ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah. You’re right, Len. You can do the talking when we get there. My head’s banging. You be the good cop, as normal. I’ll be the bad one.’
He relaxed back into the headrest and closed his eyes. The motion of the car quickly lulled him into sleep.
‘Jake! Wake up! We’re here,’ shouted Lenny as he pulled on the handbrake sharply.
They’d parked up on what looked to Jake like a council housing estate with low-rise, pebble-dashed homes. Flat, black tarmac ledges served as pavements and spindly little trees sprung up at regular intervals along both sides of the road.
‘Number eleven. Over there.’ Lenny pointed toward a blue door a few spindly trees down from them.
Jake did his usual external property recce. He glanced at the cupboard that housed the gas meter. There was just one white door. He checked the number of wheelie bins in the front garden – again just one.
The number of meter cupboards and bins were always helpful in signposting how many separate dwellings might be in any one building. Jake could tell this was a single dwelling. Good, he thought. The less people he had to deal with the better.
The black picket fence in the front garden was rotten. Several of its wooden posts had broken, and the gate lay on an overgrown lawn like it was drunk.
Lenny walked up the paved part of the garden and into a small recess that housed a blue front door.
There was no bell. Lenny rapped hard on the top glass panel. After a few seconds there was movement in the hallway. Blurred patches behind the translucent glass changed shape.
‘Who is it?’ A male with a Pakistani accent shouted.
‘It’s the police, sir. Could you open the door please?’ Lenny said in his most authoritarian tone.
‘No! Fuck off!’ said the figure as he moved away and back to where he’d come from.
Lenny looked at Jake and shook his head. They couldn’t leave now. They had to speak to this man.
Jake moved into the recess. Lenny stepped out. Jake banged on the door with fist: ‘Open up please, sir. We need to speak to you urgently!’
The Pakistani voice replied again, ‘And I’m telling you now to be fucking off!’
Jake and Lenny looked at each other and raised their eyebrows. This man’s reaction was unsettling. It was unusual. There was no telling why he’d acted that way – but Jake wasn’t about to leave it at that.
‘Open the fucking door!’ Jake shouted. The glass shook as he hammered on it again three times.
The figure moved back to
ward the door.
‘What do you want?’ asked the man.
‘I want you to open the door,’ Jake lowered his voice as he spoke.
‘I’m not opening my door!’
‘OK. This is very simple! You open the door or I kick it in! Your choice, pal,’ said Jake. He waited for a response. None was forthcoming.
‘You’ve got ten seconds to open the door!’
Jake waited for what seemed, to him, like most of the morning. There was silence. He walked back out of the recess and glanced up and down the street, looking for anyone obviously watching them. There was no one. The curtains all seemed still; the street was empty, the front gardens abandoned.
He turned back toward the door and quickly sprinted a distance of ten feet or so toward it. Three feet short, he hopped onto his left foot and then extended his right toward the lock. He felt like Roy Keane going in for a tackle, studs up.
His foot slammed with a bang, right beside the handle, as the door took his full weight. There was the sound of splintering wood and a crack as the reinforced window split. The door swung open and wood from the frame flew into the hallway toward a lone figure.
Jake and Lenny could now see the man who’d been swearing at them.
80
Wednesday
24 August 2005
1000 hours
Attercliffe, Sheffield, South Yorkshire
They didn’t flash their credentials.
Badges and IDs were for when you were doing things legally. The official line would be: ‘You don’t have to reveal your name in terrorism cases and that’s why I didn’t show him my badge, Your Honour.’
THE THESEUS PARADOX: The stunning breakthrough thriller based on real events, from the Scotland Yard detective turned author. Page 22
