He slumped onto the torn sofa. It spat feathers from the slashes as it took his weight. What had they been looking for? What did he have that they wanted? He couldn’t think. He leaned forward and picked among the sea of beer cans on the coffee table in search of some dregs; they were all empty. Instead, he found the porcelain Dusty Bin money box sitting in the middle of them. He picked it up, rolled it in his hands and looked it over again. He felt a loathing for himself like never before.
‘You set me up! You’re a fucking bitch, Claire!’ he screamed as he hurled the empty china figurine at the wall opposite him. The impact caused it to explode into different shards of white, green and red, which scattered across the floor.
By the skirting board, he saw something glint in the sunlight, something metallic and silver.
Jake walked over to the wall. Half of Dusty Bin’s base was still intact, the bung now missing. Inside what remained he found a small key stuck with superglue. It would have been imperceptible from the outside and could only be detected now that he’d smashed the thing open. He picked it up and prised the ordinary-looking key from the broken base.
‘OK, Claire. So this is what you wanted me to find, is it? This is what they were looking for when they trashed my place?’
He grabbed his mobile and called Anne at Travannon House. After a few rings, she answered.
‘Anne? Hi, it’s Jake.’
‘Hello, Jake,’ she said curtly.
‘Has Claire called you?’ he asked anxiously.
‘No, Jake she hasn’t… I’ve had the police from London here asking questions about you both, though. Asking if I knew where she was. Asking what happened the day you arrived. They told me you’re in some sort of trouble, but didn’t say what. They told me not to talk to you. When you didn’t call me back that week, I assumed everything was fine, until I got the visit from them. That was three weeks ago, Jake! I’ve been worried sick. I’ve left you messages.’
Jake sighed.
‘I’m sorry, Anne. There’s been a lot going on. I’ve done nothing wrong. I was just trying to find her.’
‘You could have called. Her father has been on the phone asking me the same thing. He’s not heard anything either.’
‘I don’t know what’s going on, Anne. It’s very strange.’
Jake looked down at the small key in his hand.
‘Anne, you’ve known Claire since she was a child, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, I have. Why?’
‘Was she fond of that seventies and eighties game show, 3-2-1? You know, the one with Dusty Bin in it?’
‘Not that I’m aware of, she might have been. Her little brother’s nickname was Dusty though. He was always climbing into small spaces and getting covered in it.’
Jake felt his heart jump.
‘He was called Dusty?’
‘You sound surprised?’
‘I’ve found a key belonging to Claire. I think she’s left it as some sort of clue.
‘There is a box of Dusty’s stuff here. It’s in the attic of the main house. Claire had the box down a few months ago. I know there’s a padlock on it. I don’t have the key though, never had it…’
That had to be it, thought Jake.
‘I’m going to come and to see you, Anne. I’m not quite sure how I’m going to get to you yet, but I will be down.’
117
Saturday
29 October 2005
0959 hours
Cranborne Lane, East Dulwich
Jake walked up the path toward the familiar Victorian facade of the house he had once shared with his wife and two girls before the split. He had phoned Stephanie and asked for her help. She was his one remaining lifeline. He had told her on the phone he was in some trouble and that he needed to talk to her face to face.
As he pressed the doorbell, he was still wondering how much he should tell her. How much did he need to tell her? Stephanie opened the door wearing her favourite pair of faded blue jeans.
‘Come in,’ she said, as she stepped to one side. ‘You look like shit.’
Jake crossed the threshold of his former home. It had changed little since he’d left. The same furniture, same carpets, same smell, same people. The only thing that was different was the man that now stood in the hallway.
Jake. Jake was different.
Stephanie closed the door and wandered off into the kitchen at the back of the house. He heard her switch the kettle on. He followed her and sat down at the large, round oak table by the patio doors, which overlooked the small rear garden. He said nothing. He was still searching for the right words, the right tone – the right way to position it.
Stephanie sat down opposite him and passed him a cup of tea. She’d remembered, without being prompted, that he took two sugars.
‘Go on then, tell me… You’ve lost your job, haven’t you?’ she asked, resigned.
‘Not yet, but I’m close. I need to sort out the trouble I’m in…’ Jake stopped himself talking. How had she known he was in trouble at work? Had the DPS been here like they had to Travannon House?
‘What makes you say it’s my job that’s the problem?’ he asked.
‘Jake, I can see you’re in a state. You look like something the cat dragged in. I know that job is the only thing you ever really cared about. You didn’t shed a single tear when you walked out of this house to go and live on your own. All you’ve ever really cared about is your job. Being the best, getting the result. That drive to win, to solve everything – it consumes you, eats you up. You try to exclude everyone and everything – you disappear into a cave. You drink or seek solace somewhere for the night. The job makes a monster of you, Jake. It makes you do weird things. You’re not the man I married. I don’t know where he’s gone…’ Stephanie tailed off, fighting back tears.
Jake said nothing. She was right. She knew exactly who he was, what he’d become.
He felt ashamed. How had he arrived here? How had his journey brought him to this point? He suddenly felt a huge surge of emotion. Tears welled up in his eyes. He put his elbows on the table and his head in his hands, covering his eyes with his palms, as if that might stop him weeping, but it didn’t. The tears flowed down his arms.
‘I’m suspended. I’m under investigation for trying to do the right thing, but it doesn’t look good. I’m a mess. I’ve been drinking a lot; I’ve been using drugs as well. I’ve fucked up… I need your help. I’ve got no cash. None at all. I need to borrow some money, and a car…’
Stephanie stared back at him for a few moments. She looked at him like she no longer recognised him and spoke through pursed lips.
‘You walked out on me, walked out on our children, walked out on our marriage without even properly explaining to me…’ Stephanie stopped herself mid-sentence to take a sip of her tea. Jake could see that she was swallowing to silence the sobs. She composed herself momentarily. She wouldn’t cry in front of him. She wouldn’t let him see her pain.
Jake tried to find the words. ‘I’m sorry. Deeply sorry. I’ve lost myself in the last few years. I’ve been an emotional coward. Instead of talking about stuff, about how I felt, I’ve hidden my feelings, hidden my emotions since Mum and Gran both died. Work was the one place where I could escape from things; it was the one place where none of those things were spoken about.’
‘Like what? What things? What problems couldn’t you discuss with me?’ Stephanie looked angry, the tears gone.
‘I was scared. Scared about being a dad, about getting old, about acting responsibly, about being a middle-aged bloke with two point four kids and living in the suburbs. I was scared about dying like Mum, and not having done all the things that I wanted to do before I did. I was scared of not having achieved something amazing to leave as a legacy for you and the kids. So I ran away from it all. I hid.’
‘And since you’ve been gone, what have you actually achieved, Jake? More notches on the
bedpost? Banged up a few more criminals? Cracked the most important case in the history of the Metropolitan Police? I bet you’ve not even achieved changing your bedclothes.’
‘I’ve behaved badly. I’ve hurt you. I really am sorry. I can’t change what’s happened.’ Jake wiped away the remaining tears from his face.
‘You’ve created two amazing daughters, Jake. They’re growing up without you, without you even realising. That’s the real tragedy in all of this – not that you walked out on me, on us. You walked out on the two single most amazing achievements a man can ever have in life, his children. That’s the legacy you should be thinking about, not whatever case you’re working on… Why are you telling me all this now? What do you need from me?’
‘Right now?’
‘Yes, right now, why are you here?’
‘I need £1,000 and a car.’
Stephanie thought for a moment, sighed to herself and replied, ‘I can transfer money into your account, but I want it back. My brother has an old van sitting on his drive that he’s trying to sell. He wants two or three hundred pounds for it. It’s too small for what he needed it for. Use some of the money I’m lending you to buy that off Paul.’
Jake suddenly wondered if her question ‘What do you need from me?’ meant something different to how he had interpreted it. Had she been throwing him a relationship lifeline, a second chance at their marriage?
Was he still so focused on solving this case that he hadn’t even seen that?
It was too late. Stephanie was already on her feet, walking toward the front door. She opened it and stood waiting for Jake to leave.
‘I’ll transfer the money into your account straightaway,’ she said. She looked at the floor and waited for him to leave.
118
Saturday
29 October 2005
2105 hours
Travannon House, St Austell, Cornwall
The 1990 Volkswagen Transporter van looked in terrible condition. Its blue paintwork was faded and lacklustre. Large patches of rust were eating away at it from inside and out, making the van look like it had brown spots all over it from a distance. It had no power steering, no air conditioning, no MOT and it had done 175,000 miles. But the radio worked and the diesel engine sounded as good as the day it rolled off the production line. Best of all it would be shown as ‘no current keeper’ on the Police National Computer. It had been sold at various times to different people who had failed to notify the DVLA that they were the owner. This suited Jake perfectly. If he had to walk away and leave it for any reason, no one could trace it back to him.
Paul, Stephanie’s brother, was a landscape gardener and had needed a rough and ready vehicle to take garden waste, rubbish and logs to the local dump, but it had proved too small and no match for his newer LT van – the trips to the dump had become too frequent. The old VW Transporter had sat on his drive for several months and the MOT had lapsed. He was glad to be rid of it and let Jake have it for just £175, with a £25 discount on top if Jake wouldn’t mind just ferrying the ancient two-stroke petrol mower inside it to the dump.
Jake accepted the discount gladly and didn’t even bother to insure the van. Another paper trail to be avoided at all costs. The Transporter started first time. He drove it off Paul’s driveway and straight to the tip to dispose of the mower, then began his journey south-west toward St Austell.
It was late evening by the time Jake pulled onto the gravel drive of Travannon House. Anne came out and ushered him into her annexe.
‘How are you doing, Jake?’ she asked as she touched his arm.
‘I’m just keen to find out what’s going on and where she is, Anne…’
‘There’s guests in the house, Jake. I’ve had to bring the trunk in here down from their loft; one of the lads helped me.’ Anne pointed at a robust wooden chest sat on the tiled floor in her kitchen. It had metal handles at the sides that were painted black and a clasp at the front with a padlock. It looked like it might have been an old tea chest in a previous lifetime.
Jake fished the key out from his pocket – the one that he’d found stuck inside Dusty Bin – and pushed it into the brushed metal padlock. It slid in easily and Jake felt a surge of excitement. He turned it barely a quarter of a turn clockwise and the lock opened.
‘Fuck me! This is it, Anne!’ shouted Jake, his emotions getting the better of him, before he realised he’d sworn in front of the elderly lady.
He pulled off the lock and opened the lid. The underside had Chinese markings stamped into the wood. Jake had no idea what they said. A musty fragrance emanated from within; a mix of sawdust and dried leaves. Inside, the chest was filled to the brim with photos of all different sizes, some in frames, some not. Every single one held an image of the same small boy.
‘What… what on earth are all these? Why?’ Jake said disappointedly, as he rifled through the box. He bit his tongue to stop himself swearing again, this time in frustration. This was all she’d left behind? How was this going to help him?
Anne glanced through the pictures and shook her head in regret at each one she picked up. ‘I know you don’t know…’ she began.
Jake looked at her. ‘Know what?’
119
Saturday
29 October 2005
2135 hours
Travannon House, St Austell, Cornwall
‘Dusty’s death marked a turning point in Claire’s life, Jake,’ announced Anne.
‘What do you mean?’
‘When you told me she was missing, I was worried about her. Worried she’d done something awful, something stupid. She’s suffered terribly during her life – I could understand if the pain was too much for her to go on.’
Jake was confused. What was Anne trying to tell him? ‘Go on,’ he replied.
Anne’s face crumpled in grief as she spoke. ‘The death of her brother, Dusty, was a tragedy, but her misery continued for many years afterwards. Both she and her dad went to live with her uncle. He turned out to be an evil man, wicked beyond belief. He abused her repeatedly. Then, when her mother died too, she locked Dusty’s stuff away and out of sight. I guess she felt that if Dusty didn’t exist and was locked away, then the abuse never existed and all those dreadful memories could be locked away too.’
‘Was nothing ever done? She never mentioned it to me, ever.’
‘Kate, Claire’s cousin, caught them one afternoon. Frank, her uncle, claimed it was a one-off and it was all consensual. Claire’s father blamed her for encouraging Frank in some way. He was sure it was down to some sort of mixed signals she was giving, that it was a one-off thing. It was repeated rape though. The family couldn’t bear to face up to more trauma after Dusty’s death. No one talked about it; it was just swept under the carpet. Claire was sent to boarding school. Her father and uncle fell out and they barely spoke again. She’s moved on. She hates her father and despises her uncle. He was utterly obsessed with her.’
Jake wondered if Claire had left him this information because she couldn’t bring herself to tell him in person. Maybe the pain of it all was too much to bear?
As Anne picked through the framed photos, Jake spotted a flash of vermillion card nestling down one side of the chest. He grabbed hold of a corner and pulled it out. It was a folder. It looked new and clearly didn’t fit with the other battered items the old chest contained.
Inside he found several intelligence reports on MI5-headed notepaper and a poorly photocopied planning application.
Jake skimmed through the intelligence reports:
Drugs Importation
‘…There is strong evidence to show that drugs in large quantities are being imported into the UK by certain members of the West Yorkshire Muslim community…’
‘…Purchase of the drugs abroad is done via the transfer of goods or monies through UK charities set up directly for this purpose…’
‘…Considerable fund
s, raised from the sale of these drugs in the UK, may be used for clandestine purposes but is beyond the scope of this investigation. The illegal drugs importation itself poses no direct threat to national security and is therefore not a matter for this agency.’
‘…Agents are using the drugs importation as a method by which to recruit informants via blackmail…’
‘…Information is not being passed to law-enforcement agencies on the drugs importation…’
‘…Agents have become directly involved in the sale/use of illegal drugs…’
Jake thought back to the moment he’d spotted Lawrence in the Gents – the telltale white substance under his nose. Was he part of all this? Had Claire uncovered his moneymaking secret?
Money Laundering
‘…Large sums of money, believed originally to be for terrorist purposes, have been found to be crime related…’
‘…Money is being used to purchase property and businesses…’
‘…A small group of individuals are exerting control over entire communities…’
‘…The local populace are excluded from other communities and are used as workers and cash cows…’
Tablighi Jamaat
‘…A rogue element has infiltrated this sect… unidentified individuals are believed to be attempting to exert control over businesses and populace…’
Jake turned his attention to the planning application. It was for a huge seventy-thousand-capacity mosque in East London. None of the names on the planning application meant anything to him.
On a separate piece of paper, he saw the name of Mohammed Biaj written next to the numbers two, zero, one and another two, followed by a question mark. Was it the code for a combination lock?
Jake saw himself standing in an amusement arcade. There was a penny-falls machine directly in front of him. He had a huge coin in his hand, but he didn’t know how to fit it into the machine. It was too big. It made no sense.
THE THESEUS PARADOX: The stunning breakthrough thriller based on real events, from the Scotland Yard detective turned author. Page 33
