LATENT HAZARD: On the Edge

by Piers Venmore-Rowland

  The scene looked more like Gaza than the City of London. In the foreground was the burnt-out shell of the building in which the Bishopsgate police station garage had been. The offices above had also been devastated. On the other side of the narrow street, the windows of the 1950s office building had been blown out and Venetian blinds flapped in the wind.

  The stage-managed news conference had all the hallmarks of a major media event. The top political reporters and their cameramen were hemmed into the narrow space behind the police station.

  In pole position, with his entourage behind him, the Home Office minister strode towards a prearranged spot in front of the gutted garage. He was a man on a mission. He looked determinedly at the destruction, conscious no doubt that the TV cameras were trained on him. One of the burnt-out police cars had been pulled out of the garage and now conveniently provided the backdrop for the minister’s meeting with the commissioner of the City of London police. On the ground next to the car lay a police helmet in a pool of dark liquid. It gave those watching a stark reminder of the tragic loss of life.

  The commissioner was looking agitated. He had been expecting the Home Secretary, with whom he very much wanted to talk. But at the last moment he had been advised that his number two would be coming. He had been standing in the cold February air, waiting for over thirty minutes, whilst the minister’s PR team got the location ready for the press. Their attention to detail when it came to dealing with TV shoots was legendary.

  As the minister approached, the commissioner walked across to the agreed rendezvous point close to the burnt-out car and the forlorn police helmet. The senior political reporters were nearby, ready to ask their questions. The minister, in shirt sleeves and a Metropolitan police flak jacket, shook the commissioner’s hand and turned towards the TV cameras.

  ‘You see before you the latest carnage wrought on our society by fundamentalists, who seek to challenge our freedoms. I can assure you that the appalling loss of life here will spur us on in our quest to bring to justice all those who assisted the suicide bomber, Imaad Wafeeq, in this heinous act. As I speak, I can reveal that we are already making good progress in our investigations. We have in custody at Paddington Green police station a man who we believe to be the financier of the terrorist cell responsible for this outrage.’

  The minister turned to the commissioner, who unlike him had not had the opportunity for a makeover before facing the cameras. ‘I understand that the investigations are progressing well?’

  The commissioner paused before making his reply. He had his concerns. The modi operandi of the attack troubled him. The bomber was not a suicide bomber and had not intended to be a victim of the bombing. It looked as if the timer had set off the bomb sooner than expected. Then there was the rucksack of explosives. It had produced far more damage than would have been expected from home-made C4 explosives, the telltale trademark of bomb attacks orchestrated by an ITS – Islamic Terror Syndicate – to which MI5 seemed convinced Rafi belonged. And how the terrorist had managed to get into the garage unchallenged worried him. He had personally reviewed the security of all his police stations only weeks earlier. The garage should not have been unguarded. At least he had been able to secure a copy of the CCTV footage showing the suspect’s meeting with the bomber.

  ‘We have a number of ongoing enquiries… Which look promising,’ replied the commissioner.

  ‘Excellent. Please let me know if you require any additional resources. I shall be available 24/7. My Government has every confidence in your ability to track down and bring to justice these barbaric criminals.’

  Had the cameras not been trained on the minister, they would have spotted a fleeting frown on the commissioner’s face. He had asked to interview the suspect, but had been thwarted. ‘It is a matter for MI5, given the gravity of the situation,’ the commissioner had been told by his political masters. He had lost three of his police officers and had two more on the critical list. He did not like being out of the loop and had gone to the top. A meeting was being scheduled for Monday with his longstanding friend, the head of MI5. He wished it could have been sooner. The commissioner stood there while the minister took questions from the press, anxious to get on with his work.

  Suddenly a signal was given and the interview was over. The press officer spoke to the reporters. ‘The minister will now be visiting the injured at the Royal London Hospital, in Whitechapel Road, and will be available for further questions there. Those of you with red press passes have been allocated seats in the hospital’s press room.’

  The commissioner watched as the flak jacket was tossed to an aide.

  ‘Nice touch, that helmet,’ said the minister. ‘What did you use for the puddle?’

  ‘Coca Cola,’ came the aide’s reply.

  The minister smiled and strode off towards his chauffeurdriven car without so much as a goodbye to the commissioner, who turned and headed back to work.

  Back in his cell, Rafi sat on the bed, trying to work out what was going on. His thoughts kept drifting back to the previous Thursday. The early morning meeting had been an upbeat affair. His boss, Jameel, had announced that he’d arranged an impromptu lunch to mark the bounce in the stock market.

  During the morning Rafi had tried ringing Callum a couple more times, but his mobile had still gone straight to voicemail.

  Then just before lunch Jameel had walked over to Rafi’s desk. ‘I think we should be prepared for some serious celebrations,’ he had said. ‘I need to go across to The Bishop of Norwich, the restaurant, to line up a few things. Could you do me a favour and drop by the cashpoint and draw out, say £500, in case I don’t have enough cash for the bar bills and tips?’

  ‘Fine,’ Rafi had replied, thinking nothing of it. There was a row of cashpoints between the office and the restaurant, in Moorgate. By the sounds of things, it was definitely going to be a session and a half for his drinking colleagues.

  Lunch was booked to start at 12.30 p.m. The whole fund management team was invited. The restaurant welcomed the unexpected request for lunch for twenty-eight and arranged an area for just Prima Terra. No expense was spared; the food was first-class and, judging by his colleagues’ remarks, the champagne and wine were excellent. Before, during and after lunch the drinks flowed freely. Rafi’s colleagues became increasingly well lubricated and were on great form. Rafi, for his part, did not drink.

  Ben, a burly lad from the East End, who looked as if he’d missed the opportunity of being a second row rugby forward, was revving up for a long session. He and a group of his colleagues decided that it was the perfect evening to visit a nightclub. They’d recently returned from a stag night in Warsaw and had coined a new expression: zloty for totty. This was their war cry, which the dealer next to Rafi was chanting. It was going to be a very long and lively celebration. Ben and his friends decided that they’d have a few more drinks and then move on to a cocktail bar in the West End, for some visual entertainment.

  Rafi remembered looking down at his watch; it had been nearly six o’clock. Half an hour earlier, Jameel had given his apologies and had left to catch a flight to Paris. Rafi still hadn’t spoken to Callum. He rang his mobile without success, and then decided to ring his office and leave a voicemail message, but to his surprise his call was diverted.

  A kind-sounding woman from Landin Young’s HR team had answered the phone. ‘Mr Khan, I have some distressing news…’ She stopped and then, after a short pause, added, ‘I’m very sorry, but Callum Burns has been killed in a car accident. He was in Luxembourg on his way to Belgium when his Mercedes hit black ice, crashed and caught fire. Can I get one of his colleagues to phone you in the morning?’

  Rafi could not reply straight away. He was nearly sick on the spot. Utter disbelief had been his immediate reaction. Then the shock struck home and an overwhelming tiredness swept through him. His hands shook. ‘Thank you, that would be helpful,’ he said weakly before hanging up.

  He had tried to put on a brave face. He wanted to
leave and go home there and then. But he did not want to draw attention to his premature departure. He had bought a couple of bottles of champagne, somehow managed to make some small talk, before quietly slipping outside and heading for home.

  Sitting on his hard cell bed, his thoughts remained on what had happened to Callum and whether his death might be linked to the bombing. Too many things just didn’t make sense: why was he driving a Mercedes and not a Porsche? Why had he been driving straight to Amsterdam via Belgium and not towards Germany and its Autobahns? What had Callum gleaned in Luxembourg? How many people were involved? Or could it all just be a coincidence? Rafi’s thoughts went round in circles. Eventually he came to the realisation that he simply didn’t have enough information to fully understand what was going on.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the cell door swinging open. The ugly guard stood a few feet away, scowling. Moments later Rafi was back in the austere interview room, facing his two interrogators.

  Andy started the ball rolling. ‘We are concerned that there will be further bombings. We have to stop further carnage and bloodshed. Our patience only goes so far. If you don’t cooperate, we have a good mind to lend you to the Yanks.’

  ‘I’m not sure that I’ve any more information that will help you,’ replied Rafi.

  Andy erupted like a Roman candle. ‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re playing at? You drag things out, waste our time and refuse to talk. Lives are at stake!’

  The grilling went on for what seemed like hours. Rafi answered the very few questions he could.

  The interrogators knew they were getting nowhere and their behaviour was becoming ever more intimidating.

  Rafi was yo-yoing from the interview room to the cell, never given chance to settle and rest. If he tried to sleep then, as soon as he had dropped off, he would be hauled back in front of his two interrogators. He had lost all sense of time – he guessed he had been questioned for all of Saturday and it was now probably Sunday. He wasn’t sure though. He was mentally drained and his recently acquired bruises ached like hell, as did his eyes. His head throbbed from the lack of sleep and the relentless stress. It dawned on him that he would not be able to withstand the verbal assault for much longer.

  Back in the interview room, Mike glowered at Rafi. ‘You’re close to your sister, aren’t you?’ It sounded like an accusation.

  ‘What?’

  ‘We think that she can help us. We’ve been looking into her research work at the University of Birmingham. She is, we’re informed, very bright. We think that she could be involved,’ said Mike.

  ‘How about we pull her in?’ added Andy

  Rafi felt the fury building up inside him. His little sister was the one person in the world he would protect with everything he possessed, even with his life. Shock followed by anger flowed through him.

  ‘My sister is one hundred per cent innocent. She has nothing to do with this,’ he pleaded.

  ‘As we are not getting very far here, I think it’s time for a twopronged attack,’ said Mike. ‘We send him for a stint of solitary at Belmarsh prison. Meanwhile we can put pressure on his sister.’

  ‘Andy grimaced. ‘She’s bound to crack like an egg under a heavy weight.’

  Rafi was visibly shaking. ‘I’m not lying. Can’t you bloody well see I’ve been set up? Stuff you! I can’t frigging well help – I know sod all about the bomber.’

  Mike lent forward. ‘Don’t worry; your sister will tell us what we need to know!’

  Rafi weakly tried to swing a punch at Mike who, despite being inches away, caught his fist and smiled.

  ‘Last chance to come clean or Saara gets the full treatment!’ threatened Andy.

  Rafi said nothing.

  ‘Bog off back to your cell and think of the fun we’ll have with your sister.’ Mike stood up to emphasise his height over him. ‘You’ll talk, you know you will.’

  Back in his cell, Rafi thought long and hard. Time had run out; the case against him viewed from the interrogators’ standpoint was overwhelming. They didn’t give a shit about what he and Callum had found on the two listed companies. They’d played their trump card: his sister. He sat, shoulders hunched. The knowledge that he’d involved her in this frightening world scared him.

  His thoughts drifted back to happier times, living at home with her and their parents. He treasured the time he had spent with her. She was eighteen months younger than him, but at times she had treated him like a little brother. He was an able student; in contrast Saara was exceptionally bright. He watched with admiration as she excelled in everything academic: she had been top at school, achieved the highest mark in her undergraduate year and her PhD dissertation had been deemed exceptional by her professor.

  Saara’s successes had spurred him on. With a BSc in Business Studies and Accounting and a couple of years’ experience working in the accounts department of a bank under his belt, he had set his sights on working in the equities markets. He completed a full-time MBA and found a good corporate finance job. Eighteen months later his and Saara’s happy lives had been shattered by their parents’ untimely death in a car crash.

  The money from his parents’ estate and his savings had enabled him to muster the deposit needed to purchase his flat. He had worked on an old adage: ‘There are three important things to consider when purchasing property, namely: location, location, location.’ So, he had spent the summer evenings four years ago visiting smart residential areas in London. He had added a fourth criteria – access to public open space – and had zeroed in on Hampstead, purchasing a two-bedroom flat in the attic space of a large red-brick house in Well Walk, close to the Heath, and not far from the tube station. The entrance to his flat was off a narrow path in Well Passage.

  Rafi came back to reality, put his hands over his eyes and forced his brain to think. They were convinced that he knew the bomber. Why the hell wouldn’t they listen to him? It was as if they were not interested in the potential wrongdoing Callum and he had uncovered. The more he thought about it the more certain he became that there had to be a connection between his finding out about the dubious shareholdings in the two companies and his being set up. He had to find a way to get Andy and Mike to look at things from his perspective. But how?

  Rafi sat in his cell thinking jumbled thoughts. It slowly dawned on him that he had one piece of evidence that they might want: a USB memory stick Callum had given him… His thoughts went back to the previous Thursday evening.

  The devastating news of Callum’s death had shaken him to the core. Once back home after the office party he had slumped in an armchair and done nothing for several hours. It had slowly dawned on him that he was wasting valuable time. He had to plan for the worst; he had to assume that someone had killed Callum. Furthermore, it might not be long before the Financial Services Authority and the fraud squad spotted what Prima Terra were up to. Callum’s USB stick might just be his insurance policy or even a valuable bargaining chip if he was confronted by the authorities.

  He had decided to hide the USB stick away from prying eyes. And remembered wondering whether he was being paranoid. He had concluded that he was not - after Callum’s suspicious death he could not afford to take chances.

  He recalled looking at his watch early on Friday morning; it had been 3 a.m. and inky dark outside. Where could he hide it? He considered places in the building and its small garden, but ruled them out as being too obvious or too close to home. So where then? It needed to be within walking distance of his flat and easy to find but, perversely, somewhere people wouldn’t look.

  An idea had come to him. He had changed into warm, darkcoloured clothes and wrapped a black cashmere scarf around his neck. He looked at himself in the mirror: with his dark skin he would be practically invisible in the shadows – or so he hoped. He picked up his gloves, put them with a number of things into his pockets and slipped quietly out of his front door onto the landing. Slowly, in the pitch black, he went down the three flights of stairs towards
the communal front door leading out into the alleyway.

  He was about to open the front door, when the seriousness of his predicament sank in. What were the chances he was being watched? Could someone be outside waiting for him to make a move? He felt a cold shiver run down his spine. It was preposterous, but he needed to be careful. His friend Callum was dead.

  He checked in his left pocket: keys, torch, and gloves – all there. And in his other pocket: USB stick and chewing gum – excellent. Tentatively he opened the front door. The catch clicked back like the bolt of a gun being cocked. He jumped, imagining that everyone could hear him. He recovered his composure. His heart raced, but everything around him remained silent. He pulled the door ajar, stopping for a moment to test his night vision. Quietly, he slipped outside, closing the door behind him. The passage was sheathed in darkness. He turned right and, hugging the wall, walked slowly up the murky passage towards the next street.

  At the top of the alley, Rafi was about to take a right turn towards the Heath, when he stopped and looked back towards the bottom of the alley and Well Walk. Across the other side of the road, was the silhouette of a Mercedes car parked sidewayson.

  Large Mercedes cars were popular around where he lived. Rafi was about to turn away, when his heart missed a beat. Was he seeing things? Inside the car there was a small orange glow. The glow of a cigarette tip brightening as someone inhaled. He was petrified, his feet glued to the spot. The small blob of light moved. Oh sod it! There was someone there, watching. He wished the path would swallow him up. If the person had seen him slip out of the front door, surely he would have followed him? Or perhaps he was waiting to see which way he went? Whether they were on to him or not, Rafi knew he had to keep moving.

  Warily he headed towards the Heath, and to The Pryors, an upmarket, Edwardian-style apartment block. He turned left off the pavement and made his way carefully down the path alongside the tall wall of The Pryors. The trees on the edge of the Heath appeared ghostlike, just visible, towering over him. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. There was stillness, a cloak of silence around him. A rustling in the undergrowth startled him. His senses were on their peak setting. He stood still, utterly terrified. The noise faded and he moved on again, his heart racing.