A million thoughts ran through Jake’s head. Was she pregnant? Was it his? Was it work? Did she have an STI that she needed to tell him about? Had she heard about his big mistake in the club that night? Was she seeing someone else? It was odd that she wouldn’t even speak to him via mobile.
‘Look – I’ll be on the first train up to Leeds tomorrow morning. I’ll text you the ETA. Pick me up from the station.’
She hung up.
Jake was worried.
23
Monday
18 July 2005
0818 hours
Leeds railway station, Leeds, West Yorkshire
Leeds was awake. ‘Loiners’ – as Jake had learned they were called after the Yorkshire dialect for lanes – were busying the streets, running for trains, walking to offices.
The air was humid and made Jake feel sleepy; he’d been up worrying most of the night about what Claire was so anxious to speak to him about. When the alarm finally went off, he’d almost wanted to roll over and hit the snooze button. Nevertheless, he was looking forward to seeing her.
As he waited in the busy concourse area, he spotted her bejewelled pumps wending their way toward him in the early-morning haze. There was a half-smile on her face as she acknowledged him, but just watching her posture as she walked from the platform, he could tell she was tense and drawn.
Jake had first met Claire back in 1990 whilst they were both studying at Lancaster University. He had managed to scrape through his A levels and was doing politics and law. He’d noticed Claire on the campus a few times, but their social circles and courses were different and they hadn’t spoken. She was studying psychology and computing.
Every year there was an annual sports competition between Lancaster University and the University of York – the Roses Tournament. Jake was a handy sprinter. His stocky build gave him an explosive strength that was difficult to match. Claire was a decent distance runner and they’d got talking on the field during their warm-ups.
There had been a lot of drinking after the Lancaster team had won the tournament. Jake had found himself drawn to Claire. Yes, she was slim and good-looking – with a trim, athletic figure – but there was more to her. She had a depth to her personality that attracted Jake in a way that he hadn’t experienced with previous girlfriends. Jake could tie most girls up in knots with his wit but Claire always had a fast comeback. Just as sharp and just as funny.
During the heavy night of celebratory drinking, Jake found out that Claire had been seeing someone from her campus – she called him her ‘almost boyfriend’ because she had feelings for him, but refused to commit to anyone while she was at university. One thing led to another and Jake and Claire had ended up in her single bed together in her cramped campus room. It was the best sex Jake had ever experienced.
They saw each other a lot in the months that followed, but Jake’s time at university was abruptly curtailed when Jake’s father’s company went into liquidation. Jake ran out of money fast without his father’s financial support and ended up moving back home to get a job and support the family.
He and Claire stayed in touch, but the phone calls got shorter and shorter until they stopped all together and Jake had applied to join the police.
It was at his first meeting with the British Security Service after joining the Anti-Terrorist Branch that he saw Claire again. There she’d been, sitting at the end of the table.
They’d met for dinner afterwards, flirted, kissed a little. It was like the fifteen years in-between had never happened.
One day, Claire had said that he could call her and ask for information. She’d said it was useful to both camps and she’d be happy to help.
‘I’m that good at sex? You’re willing to break the rules for me?’ Jake had joked.
The car was parked at the rear of Leeds train station. Jake opened the passenger door for Claire.
He drove without asking any questions, turning left and right onto side roads and checking several times that they were not being followed.
Finding a quiet street that he felt comfortable in, he parked up. They sat in the shade of an ancient horse chestnut tree that split the paving flags with its roots.
‘What is it?’ he asked abruptly, turning to face her.
Claire’s hazel eyes shifted in colour from brown to green as she stared back at him. Her expression gave nothing away. Jake stopped himself from reaching out to touch her face with his fingertips. He could sense she was in work mode.
‘You know back in May, when Abu al-Iraqi was arrested by the Americans in Pakistan?’ she began.
‘Yeah – the CIA has him? He’s in Guantanamo Bay? So what’s the problem? Why are you here?’
‘They arrested him in a pre-planned operation. They’d been watching him and his network in Pakistan. They say he’s head of al-Qaeda’s European operations.’
‘So?’
‘That means what happened in London eleven days ago, Jake. Those sorts of operations. That’s what he’s involved in. Do you understand what I mean?’ asked Claire.
Jake nodded.
Claire continued, ‘After al-Iraqi was arrested, we picked up some chatter, some conversation.’
‘OK. Who’s been identified from the chatter? Anyone up here?’ asked Jake, referring to the Leeds investigation.
‘It’s more than that. There were some odd phone messages left via al-Iraqi’s contacts after he was arrested. Coded stuff…’ Claire paused.
Jake glimpsed a look of pain in Claire’s eyes and something he had not seen before – fear. For a brief moment she looked scared, lost and incredibly young again. It reminded him of when they’d first met at University. Her eyes today, they were the same innocent ones that he had known back then – the ones that looked at things not knowing how they worked. This was not the confident and in-control, career Claire.
‘There are links to one of Wasim’s contacts. We think Wasim was one of the recipients of the coded messages. He was at a training camp in Pakistan with several key people. Everyone in this particular group was taught how to make a new type of explosive at the camp. It’s like nothing we’ve seen before. The trainers at the camps – they’ve learned from the Crevice operation that we can track orders of precursor materials like fertiliser. So their tactics and bomb ingredients – they’ve evolved…’ She went silent for a brief moment. ‘There are others involved. Something is going on. I’m worried… It’s moving way too slowly on our side.’
Claire trailed off and looked away. Eye contact with him had ceased for the time being. He guessed that this signified the end of the information feed.
‘Why are you telling me this now, Claire? You think I haven’t been saying this exact same stuff since Operation Crevice?’
Jake felt a mixture of arrogance and bewilderment. He had been pushing this with senior management for the last few months. They just would not listen. He was constantly being told that ‘the Service should lead’ and ‘if they say the job is dead, it’s dead’. Clearly he had been on the right track. But management was still telling him he hadn’t got enough for a criminal investigation.
Jake’s eyes narrowed as something else dawned on him. ‘But al-Iraqi was arrested in May? Two months ago! You’ve known about these coded communications for two months?’
‘No!’ Claire shot back. ‘I found this out yesterday! I’m telling you today! Look. You need to take a look at this.’
Claire glanced around quickly to check there was no one in the street before surreptitiously palming him a piece of paper. ‘Let me know if the police know anything about this number and address, will you? Please? As a personal favour to me?’ She sounded desperate, pleading.
It was the first time Claire had ever asked him directly for information. The moment wasn’t lost on him. The Security Service already had access to police-intelligence databases and the HOLMES system, but she wa
s explicitly asking what he knew.
‘I need to get back,’ said Claire.
‘What? You’re going back now?’ Jake laughed, thinking she was joking.
‘Yes, I have work to do,’ she said, as she looked squarely into his eyes. There was no smile. She was serious.
‘That’s it? You came all that way just to tell me that? And you’re not even staying for some breakfast?’ he joked back to hide his annoyance.
She was silent and turned to stare dead ahead out of the windscreen.
Jake realised it was pointless to argue.
At that precise moment, he knew he didn’t have the words to change her mind.
Jake pushed the BMW’s gear stick into the drive position and the pair retraced the short distance in silence. At the station, Claire looked at him earnestly before leaning forward and kissing him on the lips. Without a word she got out and walked away to hunt for a return train to London.
Jake sat in his car at the taxi rank with the engine running. He could hear the honking horns from the taxi drivers, telling him to move off their patch, but he ignored them.
Her voice echoed in his head. ‘There are others involved.’
She’d travelled all that way just to tell him that? Ask him that? Give him that piece of paper? It made no sense. Why?
Was it that sensitive that she didn’t want to transmit the information any other way? Jake knew that was how the bad guys worked. Messages and letters were passed down from al-Qaeda command; a network of contacts ensured the messages were delivered to the right people. Who was Claire scared of? Who did she think might have listened in to that conversation if they’d had it on the phone instead of her travelling three hours to Leeds and three hours back to London on a train?
Jake looked at the note. Hastily written in blue pen was a London address: ‘Sullivan House, New Southgate, north London’, together with a phone number. There was no name. Maybe they didn’t know who was using the phone?
Claire was aware that Jake sometimes broke into addresses without getting authorisation from the head of Intelligence or a court. Was that what she wanted? Why didn’t she get her own guys to do it?
The morning sun was starting to get hot. It blinded Jake as it shone straight in through the front window of the BMW. He lowered the sun visor.
He needed breakfast. Then he needed to get to work on what she’d given him. He would have to go to London later in the week and find out what the hell this address was all about.
24
Tuesday
19 July 2005
1000 hours
Dudley Hill police station, Bradford, West Yorkshire
Tuesdays were meeting days; the day when Jake’s satellite arm of the investigation spoke face to face with the London team via a video link.
‘Now, CCTV. Who’s here from CCTV today?’
Malcolm Denswood, the senior investigating officer on the operation, took centre stage on the pictures being beamed up from London.
A black-suited arm appeared toward the back of the table. ‘I am, sir. DS Chris Barnby.’
‘You have some news for us I hear, Chris?’
‘Yes, sir. It’s more an oddity than anything else. As you know, we’ve been looking at the CCTV from Woodall Services on the M1, just south of Sheffield. That’s where the bombers stopped to fuel up the Micra at around 0505 hours as they drove down to London. Asif Rahman, the bus bomber, who pays for the petrol, is wearing white tracksuit bottoms. In every other CCTV clip we have of him after that point, he’s wearing dark blue or black tracksuit bottoms. We checked the inventory of all the items that were found in the Micra at Luton. The white tracksuit bottoms are not there, sir. It’s odd.’
‘That is odd. I’m not sure it takes us anywhere as far as the investigation is concerned, though. Anyone have any suggestions on this?’
There was silence.
‘Sir?’ Maria, one of the MIR receivers down in London put her hand up and fidgeted in her seat excitedly. Jake had met her a few times. She was sweet, but a bit dim. Everyone knew it.
‘Sir, if the tracksuit bottoms weren’t in the Micra, Asif must have taken them with him and blown them up. Or lobbed them out of the window, sir,’ said Maria.
The comment was met by silence from Denswood and the rest of the room.
There was giggling from the team up in Bradford. Maria had stated the obvious. There were no other alternatives. One of those two things had to have happened. Jake was sure Denswood didn’t need Maria to tell him that. The question was why the tracksuit bottoms were missing, not how.
People often stated the obvious in these meetings, but with the belief that they had stumbled upon the meaning of life. It always made Jake smile.
Jake suddenly had a vision of Maria sat proudly in front of Denswood in a tartan Sherlock Holmes deerstalker hat, thinking that she had solved the case. He started to giggle along with the Leeds MIR team. The giggle was louder than he had wanted it to be – Denswood heard it down in London over the video link. He turned toward the camera.
‘DI Flannagan, do you have some input on this?’ Denswood looked directly into the camera as he spoke, straight at Jake.
‘Errrr… Yes, I do, sir… I’d imagine that trip was a fairly scary thing for one to be doing that morning. I’m thinking the most likely explanation is that Asif shit himself on the way to blow himself up and soiled his pristine, white tracksuit bottoms, sir?’ Jake kept a straight face as laughter erupted from both the Leeds office and the London side.
Denswood waited for the laughter to stop.
‘Thank you, Jake.’ Denswood coughed. He was trying hard not to smile.
Denswood concluded the meeting by reminding everyone that there was a job to do. ‘We’ve a lot to get through here, but if we all pull our weight and put enough meat in the top of the machine, I’m determined that we’ll get some sausages out of the bottom.’
The video link was severed and Jake returned to his desk in the Dudley Hill office.
Jake had a lot of time for his big boss; he really put his heart into the job. Yet Jake feared Denswood was not always very effective on his own – especially in such an overwhelming investigation with so many pieces of information to muddy the waters. This single bomb factory at Victoria Park looked way too convenient. Jake didn’t like it. Not one bit.
25
Tuesday
19 July 2005
1516 hours
Dudley Hill police station, Bradford, West Yorkshire
From the inventory list that had been made of every single item found in the Victoria Park flat, the team of receivers down at the Major Incident Room in London were beginning to send up action after action to Jake’s team of detectives in Bradford.
Jake’s team were supposed to investigate the object and let the MIR know what they’d found out by sending them back a message. The MIR looked at the message, indexed it and linked it to other information on the HOLMES computer.
HOLMES stood for Home Office Large Major Enquiry System and was a blatant backronym designed to crowbar in a reference Arthur Conan Doyle’s famous sleuth.
The HOLMES system had been dreamt up years ago in the wake of mistakes made during the Yorkshire Ripper investigation. Peter Sutcliffe had come up several times during different lines of enquiry, but the investigation team at the time had not connected the different pieces together, which had led to Sutcliffe killing more. HOLMES was supposed to connect the dots, attempting to avoid such mistakes in the future.
Jake was beginning to hate the requests coming out of London to investigate items found at the Victoria Park premises. Each night in his dreams, Wasim was sending him on wild goose chases and mocking him when he came up empty-handed.
He called Helen on his mobile.
‘Boss, it’s Jake.’
‘Hey, Jake – how’s things? I hear it’s goi
ng well up there?
‘Helen, HOLMES is creating its own problems by swamping the investigation team with infinite actions. It means that the intricacies of literally everything have to be investigated in minute detail.’
‘Well then, there’s plenty for you lot to be getting on with?’ his boss replied, unfazed.
‘Way too much evidence to suggest that, Helen!’ said Jake in annoyance.
‘What do you mean?’
Jake hesitated for a moment, then dived in. ‘This all seems a bit, well… convenient. They wanted us to find this bomb factory. We were handed it on a plate. Does that not ring alarm bells with you? Have you seen the living room area? You can’t move for evidence, you can’t even walk across it. There’s everything here that’s been used to conduct this bombing operation. I don’t buy it. We’re missing something. Something they wanted to hide by giving us this place. I’m sure of it,’ he said, with total conviction.
Helen laughed. ‘Well you scoot off and find it, Jake. In the meantime we’ll concentrate on the actual hard evidence we’ve got.’
‘Yeah, I’ll do exactly that, Helen,’ he replied dryly.
Jake was sick of it. He couldn’t take much more of these stupid actions.
‘Helen, there’s only so much we can do to investigate the hell out of a tube of toothpaste. Why do I have to make a member of my team drive to Peterborough to visit a company that supplied the packaging for that toothpaste more than a year ago? What does that have to do with a terrorist bombing down in London? It doesn’t solve anything.’
‘Put enough meat in the top and we’ll get sausages out the bottom – you know how it is, Jake,’ said Helen, repeating Denswood’s familiar mantra.
‘But why aren’t we looking at the motives behind it? What if the evidence we’re looking at doesn’t give us the motive? If it doesn’t tell us why?’
‘What do you mean? We know their motives. They were extremists and they’re dead anyway. The whys and wherefores don’t even matter in this.’
THE THESEUS PARADOX: The stunning breakthrough thriller based on real events, from the Scotland Yard detective turned author. Page 8