THE THESEUS PARADOX: The stunning breakthrough thriller based on real events, from the Scotland Yard detective turned author.

by David Videcette

  ‘Then I need say no more to you, sir. Your own head will tell you that what you hear from me is right. Would you want a fucking great big mosque on your doorstep? They have hundreds of mosques in the area already. Why do they need a new one this big?’

  Jake had heard enough.

  ‘Thanks for your time, Mr Savage.’ Jake stood up and walked toward the front door of the house, without offering the man his hand.

  As they left and made their way toward the car, Kenny continued chuntering from his front door.

  ‘Shahid Bassam is not what he seems, Mr Flannagan. Look past that polished facade and the nice car!’ he shouted.

  94

  Wednesday

  14 September 2005

  1230 hours

  M2 motorway, Kent

  They left the sleepy Medway town behind, as Lenny drove toward the motorway. They were silent. Both thinking about the man they had just met.

  ‘What do you reckon then, boss?’ asked Lenny. ‘He seemed a nice sort of chap. Successful businessman, runs his own company.’

  ‘Jesus, Lenny, he was like Jekyll and Hyde! Charming and awful all at the same time! The thinking man’s thug. He could live next door to you and you might never even know his views.’

  ‘Yeah, but do you think he really called Shahid a Paki during the demonstration scuffles? I could understand why there might be a fight, but what did Shahid mean? “You will never win this fight.” What did that mean?’

  ‘I don’t know, Lenny. It could mean anything.’

  Jake had come away with a nasty taste in his mouth. Was it the tea or the bile spewing from Kenny? This man who had seemed so normal and sensible on first meeting. He made Jake question his own views.

  The nice house with the white leather sofa. It could have been Shahid’s living room, thought Jake. Shahid Bassam and Kenny Savage were two peas from the same pod in many respects. Neither were what they first seemed.

  ‘I wonder, boss, if Kenny and Shahid aren’t so different after all? Two ends of the same horseshoe, perhaps? They both want to keep their wealth and profits within their own communities. And what’s wrong with that? Is that racist?’

  Jake shook his head. ‘I just can’t figure him out. Maybe he just has a deep-seated, illogical hatred of anyone new? Anyone who looks different? It felt like an aggressive hate aimed at deliberately stirring up trouble, like rioting football hooligans.’

  ‘Nah,’ disagreed Lenny, ‘I think it’s more about protectionism.’

  ‘You didn’t say much in there, Lenny.’ Jake looked across the car at his colleague.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Some of what he says I agree with. He’s right about some stuff. He’s racist, yes, but no more racist than most people. He just says what he thinks. Does that make him bad? I know it’s not politically correct and work would sack me for agreeing with him in public but I don’t want any more Muslims here either.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. How can more mosques mean more Muslims? And so what if we have more Muslims anyway?’

  ‘I think that’s his point, It doesn’t necessarily mean more. It just becomes a magnet and the whole area becomes more Muslim. It becomes a concentrated mass in one place. Segregation takes place. It’s that segregation that then breeds pockets of extremism. Us and them. I don’t want them on my doorstep either, mate…’ Lenny tailed off.

  They sat in silence. Jake closed his eyes. He slept.

  95

  Monday

  3 October 2005

  1940 hours

  St Austell, Cornwall

  The sun had started to disappear below the headland as Jake had passed Launceston on the A30. He had driven the last forty minutes in the dark whilst listening to a crackly phone-in show on a regional radio station. As he drove westwards in the warm car, local voices were thrashing out the case for Land’s End to be the first UK stop on the Olympic torch relay.

  The drive down from Leeds had taken him more than seven hours; he was tired. It had been almost three months since he’d had any real time off work. There was still so much going on with the investigation, but he desperately needed to see Claire, spend some time with her and, truth be told, he needed some space away from the investigation.

  It was having a strange effect on him; he couldn’t explain it. The more he found out and the more he did, the less he trusted anyone else to do a thorough and proper job on things. It was like they didn’t care, like the result didn’t matter. As long as they travelled a course, their destination was unimportant. What was the point in that? He’d even begun to question Lenny’s commitment to getting the result that mattered. He needed some space.

  He’d been trying to call Claire all day but she wasn’t picking up. She’d be there by the time he got there, he reasoned. The phone signal was so patchy in places. It faded in and out like the crackly local radio station.

  Grade II-listed Travannon House had been built during the 1700s. Stucco rendered and painted white, the building was surrounded by camellias, azaleas and rhododendrons, and could still be seen some way back down the road, even at night.

  The property had been owned by Claire’s father’s family for five generations, but for the past couple of years the eight-bedroom house had been occupied solely by Claire’s mother and a housekeeper.

  Claire’s father hadn’t visited the house for more than ten years because of the divorce; a divorce in which alcohol had played a large part. An addiction to spirits had dragged Claire’s mother off to an early grave aged sixty-three. The housekeeper had found her in bed on Boxing Day back in 2004, empty bottles strewn across the bedroom floor.

  The place was now a £5,000-per-week holiday let. Anne, the housekeeper, lived in an annexe to the rear of the main building and kept the place running smoothly.

  Jake pulled onto the gravel drive to the side of the house; the housekeeper’s Mondeo estate was the only car there. As he extracted himself from the work BMW, Anne came out to greet him wearing a big smile.

  ‘Good to see you again, Jake! Claire not with you? She driving herself down?’ Anne held out the keys to the house in front of her.

  ‘She’s not here yet?’ Jake asked as he took the keys.

  ‘I spoke to her yesterday. She said you were both coming. I assumed you’d be arriving together,’ replied Anne.

  ‘I drove down from Leeds – up there working. Claire was in London. The traffic was really bad. Lots of sheds on wheels. Maybe she’s just caught in traffic? She told me she was leaving first thing in the morning, but maybe she left it a bit late?’

  ‘Probably. The heating isn’t on in the main house because it’s been really sunny and warm. There’s plenty of wood if you get a bit chilly. Firelighters and kindling are next to the grate in a basket. There’s milk, cheese and bread and the usual stuff in the fridge.’

  ‘Great, thanks, Anne,’ said Jake as he walked toward the main door.

  The house had been lovingly looked after by Anne for years. She’d tried to look after Claire’s mother too, but in the end, the house was the only one that had benefitted from the care and attention.

  After stowing his bags upstairs and getting a fire going, Jake settled in front of the TV to watch the 9 p.m. news. George Best was in hospital, a group of police cadets had been washed out to sea by a typhoon in China, and the US had killed thirty terrorists in Afghanistan.

  Jake tried calling Claire again. This time he got a message saying that her phone was switched off.

  The fire was warming the room up. Jake took off his shoes and put his feet up on the sofa as the newsreader explained that George Best had a kidney infection and was in intensive care.

  Jake thought about his own drinking. Did he crave it? Did he need it? Not like Best obviously needed it and couldn’t stop, not like Claire’s mother. Why did he keep drinking? Maybe Bestie was lying i
n hospital right now asking himself that very same question?

  Jake put his head back on the sofa. He’d never met Claire’s mother. He’d seen photos of her. She’d been a beautiful lady back in her day. Claire didn’t speak about Patricia much. He’d been told that the drinking had become a real problem in the early eighties, after the birth of Claire’s younger brother. The toddler had somehow found his way out of their townhouse in London and into the rear garden on his own. He’d drowned in the family’s fish pond. Claire had been playing in her room when it had happened. She’d been ten at the time.

  When Patricia’s drinking became too much, Claire’s father had tried to get her help, but he couldn’t cope on his own with Claire too.

  Claire had moved in with her uncle and his family. Her father had totally immersed himself in his job, and it was agreed that Patricia would go to Travannon House. The place would be closed to lettings and Anne would try to help her quit the booze.

  Patricia’s isolation only served to make matters worse. Things spiralled out of control. She attempted suicide on more than one occasion. Claire’s parents divorced and Claire ended up at boarding school.

  Claire adored Travannon House. She missed her mother, despite her being a drunk. She hated her father for taking the easy option, rather than trying to look after her and her mother. It was a disease after all. She just needed help. Splitting them all up was never going to do any good.

  Jake knew that Claire’s move to live with her uncle’s family had apparently been a disaster, and Claire had been eager to escape to boarding school.

  Jake wondered if Patricia was waiting, like he was, for Claire to arrive. There was a photo of her on the side table by the fireplace. She was stood there smiling with her arm around a very young Claire in a field somewhere; maybe even a field near here, pondered Jake.

  He looked around the room. There were photographs of Claire everywhere, yet not a single photo of her younger brother – not one. Jake realised he didn’t even know the boy’s name. He was never mentioned. Like a dark secret that should never be spoken of. Claire didn’t ever mention him. He’d ask her when she arrived.

  96

  Tuesday

  4 October 2005

  0715 hours

  Travannon House, St Austell, Cornwall

  It was getting light when Jake awoke. He’d fallen asleep on the sofa. The embers in the fire still glowed. Breakfast TV was just starting, but the set had been on all night. He looked at his phone. No missed calls. No text messages. No Claire?

  Jake got up and walked to the large side door that looked out onto the driveway. Just the Mondeo and the BMW were visible to the side of the house; Claire hadn’t made it down? He walked out onto the gravel drive just to be sure she hadn’t parked on the grass at the front for some reason. In the early-morning light, a mist hovered on the sand dunes that overlooked the beach. There was no other car.

  He went back into the kitchen and tried calling her mobile again. Answerphone. Maybe something had come up at work for her? Surely she’d call and let him know?

  He needed a shower and some breakfast. He’d walk down to the beach maybe, while he waited.

  Jake arrived back at Travannon House just after 1300 hours. He’d spent most of the morning in St Austell getting some fresh air, and seeing if he could pick up a more reliable mobile-phone reception than that on the beach. He hated being on his own. He’d drunk tea and eaten scones with clotted cream overlooking the harbour.

  He was now starting to get worried about Claire. It was unusual. She’d not said anything about being late and had not returned any of his calls. Her mobile was still going to answerphone. He’d managed to get hold of her office whilst he’d been in St Austell. They’d refused to give any information about her at all and wouldn’t even confirm if she worked there. Although that was to be expected insofar as Jake’s dealings with the Security Service were concerned.

  At 1900 hours, Jake collected up his toiletries and repacked his belongings into his bag. Something was wrong. He’d decided to drive to London to make sure she was OK. As Jake walked down the hall, he noticed a photo on the wall. A small boy stood on his own in a garden, in front of a yellowy, London-stock-brick wall. He looked sad. The frame was different to the others. Newer. Maybe that was the younger brother who’d died?

  Jake placed his bags in the boot of the BMW. He knocked on the annexe and explained that he felt something was wrong, giving Anne instructions to call him if Claire arrived or was in touch.

  He set off at speed. It was nearly three hundred miles to London. He’d try to do it in four hours if he could.

  97

  Wednesday

  5 October 2005

  0805 hours

  Pimlico, London

  Jake walked up the stairs to Claire’s apartment. She’d chosen it because she said she could walk to Thames House in fifteen minutes and it was handy for Victoria Station. The block was a newbuild on the corner of Gillingham Street and Wilton Road, lots of curved steel and glass. Jake had put on a suit and tie especially and buzzed all the buzzers for long enough until someone had gotten fed up and let him in without asking. As he reached the third floor, one of the neighbours appeared out of their front door.

  ‘Good morning’, said Jake politely to a thirty-something blonde in a tight, powder-blue skirt suit.

  Jake had met only one of Claire’s neighbours in the past, and this wasn’t that one. He was pleased because it meant it wouldn’t blow his cover story. He needed to get inside Claire’s flat without the usual problems that might be associated with an overzealous boyfriend looking for a girlfriend that had not been returning his calls. These things could quickly be misunderstood.

  He’d still not heard anything from Claire. There had been no answer when he’d finally arrived from Cornwall at midnight. The lights on the third floor had been off. Her car was parked in the residents-only bay by the front doors of the block. He’d gone home, waited another night… and still he’d heard nothing.

  Jake was carrying a black folder under his arm. The blonde neighbour eyed it warily.

  ‘Can I help you? You’re not a resident here?’ she asked.

  All surveillance and intelligence operatives used cover stories that had to be decent enough to withstand a bit of questioning. This was why, in the folder, Jake carried a false photo-ID card proclaiming to be from Johnson, Brady & Bobb Surveyors. It was old, he’d used it a lot in the past and it had become a bit dog-eared and battered. All the more believable though; these things got better with age.

  He opened the folder, which also had pens, paper and a tape measure inside, and made sure that the woman got a good view of these as he searched for his ID. He pulled out the laminated card and held this up fleetingly – just long enough for her to see his photo but not inspect it much further.

  ‘I’m a subcontractor from the builders who put in the balustrades on the stairs when the apartment block went up. Just checking for structural integrity,’ Jake said as he replaced his ID and zipped up the folder.

  ‘OK,’ she said as she turned and walked toward the lift. Jake watched as her trim figure, hugged by the pencil skirt, disappeared behind the sliding doors.

  He waited as the lift numbers counted downwards, then watched from the window until he saw the blue pencil skirt leave the building.

  The back section of his folder was secured by another zip, inside which he had a pick gun. A lock-picking set was hidden underneath the papers. He pressured the door to see which locks were on. If the door gave a few millimetres when he pushed it, he would know that not all of the locks had been applied. But there was no give and it felt solid. Claire had obviously not just popped down to the shops when she last left the flat. Both the deadlock and Yale were definitely on.

  Jake took out the lock-picking set and pushed two different levers into the mortice on the lower part of the door. He felt the tum
blers move. A cheap Italian lock in a building like this? Jake tutted to himself. The lock opened within a few seconds. He placed the pick gun in the Yale lock and pulled its trigger several times, vibrating the lock into the same state as Claire’s key would. A second lever opened the door. It had taken less than thirty seconds to get inside Claire’s half-a-million-pound flat.

  Jake pushed her door closed. The Security Service employed some bright people – but despite all their computer skills, he despaired that they still didn’t understand how to make their own homes secure.

  He pulled out two sets of latex gloves. As he struggled with putting the second set on over the first, he wondered why the hell they weren’t both sitting by the sea together eating fish and chips. Where was she?

  Jake made his way down the hallway leading to Claire’s living room. Dark solid-wood floors were coupled with panelled doors and fancy ceiling coving. Jake knew that Claire’s salary as an intelligence analyst at the British Security Service would struggle to cover just the service charge and the utility bills at this place. He’d always assumed that Claire’s father, a banker in the City, was where the money came from. She saw her dad infrequently and he seemed to just throw money at her. Guilt money maybe? Jake had often wondered.

  He walked down the hallway and looked into each room. He checked the bathroom; it was dry. No water on the floor, sinks, bath or shower screen. No one had used it this morning. No damp towels, no wet toothbrush in its normal holder.

  In the bedroom, the bed was made, with a suitcase next to it. He turned the small case on its back and unzipped it. Claire’s clothes for her holiday stared back at him, all packed and ready to go. He zipped the case back up as best he could wearing his two pairs of surgical gloves, and put it back in its original position.

  He had a quick glance in the wardrobe and spotted a man’s designer suit hanging amongst Claire’s clothes. It wasn’t one of his. The brand was Armani, nice. Two grand’s worth at least. A spasm of doubt gripped him, like a sharp sinus pain between the eyes. Whose was it?