‘Control Room are saying it’s a possible chemical attack, sir – are we OK here?’ asked Fatty, looking even more nervous.
‘You’ll be fine – trust me. Go on. Get on with it!’ said Jake, gently nudging Fatty in the direction of the Tube entrance.
A small crowd of people had gathered by the railings that separated the road from the pavement. There were six of them – four men and two women. An older woman wearing a lacy cardigan was crying on the shoulder of a younger bloke in a beige suit. The rest were talking on their mobile phones. Jake went over to the group and raised his warrant card in identification.
‘I’m a police officer – any injuries or walking wounded?’ Jake asked the shell-shocked group.
A stocky guy in a green T-shirt, whom Jake immediately thought looked like a builder, spoke for the group.
‘We were in the same carriage. We saw what happened. He tried to blow his rucksack up. He was chanting something and fiddling with something. I dunno what – it looked like a wire. Then there was a loud pop, a bang, and then this stuff flew out of his rucksack. It went all over him and onto the floor. It was burning his back. He was screaming. I grabbed him but he got away. Ran off.’
Jake said nothing at first. He just looked at them. Each one of them. For a moment everything around him stopped. Time stood still. There was a silence. Peace. All these people. Six people. All with a story and a life. All six might be dead had Jake not been to that flat yesterday. What was Claire playing at? What was the Security Service playing at?
Jake was jolted back into the real world again as the other woman from the group spoke up.
‘What do we need to do?’ she asked.
A blonde in her early thirties with long straight hair, she was wearing a floaty floral dress and cream patent-leather shoes. She was what Jake would term an absolute stunner.
‘Well. I’m going to need statements from you all. And I need you to take your clothes off…’ Jake raised one eyebrow in her direction and smiled at her. ‘Your clothing is evidence. There will be fibres and residue on them that we’ll need. I’ll organise for you to be taken to a local police station. We’ll get you all some new clothes so we can take those ones.’
There was a general look of bewilderment on the group’s faces.
The blonde piped up again slightly annoyed, ‘But I’m going to a wedding. I’ve got to be there. What clothes are you going to give me? You can’t take my new dress!’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you get to the wedding looking just as fine as you do now.’
Jake turned and walked back over to Fatty and Skinny. Fatty was arguing with a red-faced firefighter who was claiming he needed to go down to the Tube.
Jake spoke to Skinny, ‘I need a van. Those six people over there—’ Jake pointed to the group ‘—they all saw what happened and were on the carriage with the suspect. At least one of them has touched the suspect. All are significant witnesses. Get a van and get them to Brixton. Don’t let any of them go anywhere. I’m going to organise a team to take their statements and clothing.’
After trading mobile numbers with Skinny who approached the group and explained what was going to happen, Jake called the Reserve Room at the Yard.
‘Roley? I’m down at the Oval…’
Roley interrupted, ‘Oooh be careful down there, son. Chemical attack they’ve said. Nasty, nasty!’
‘It’s fine. Don’t think it’s anything to worry about. Look, I’ve got a group of significant witnesses here. I need five people to do statements and clothing at Brixton. Can you organise that for me?’
‘Of course I can, son. Call ya back or someone will shortly.’ Roley hung up.
By the time Jake arrived at Brixton police station, a total of fifteen witnesses had been rounded up. There was no chance he was going back to Leeds for a while. He knew that much.
31
Thursday
21 July 2005
1400 hours
Oval Tube station, Kennington, London
The blonde stunner was called Alice. She was single. Jake ensured that he took her statement first. She flirted outrageously with him and he tried desperately to stay in professional work mode, but ended up giving as good as he got. He had to ask for her dress and shoe size before popping out to a local branch of Principles and purchasing a strappy aquamarine dress and gold kitten heels for her. He even shocked himself by making sure to choose a dress that was shorter and more revealing than the one she’d originally had on.
Back at the station, Jake got on with the other interviews. Alice had disappeared with her assigned WPC, who swabbed her for explosives, took all her clothing and bagged it all up.
Later, when she returned, she was beaming. She was very happy with Jake’s choices. As he watched her twirling around in the interview room, showing off her new outfit, Jake thought that she looked incredible. Even better than before.
On the Tube, Alice had been in the seat closest to the suspect when he’d tried to detonate his device. It should have been her in the black body bag – not just her pretty wedding clothes. She would have died had it not been for Jake going to Sullivan House yesterday. Instead, she was standing there in a stylish new outfit in front of an admiring detective.
Jake smiled at her. ‘You look fantastic.’
‘Well thank you, my gorgeous personal shopper. But it still doesn’t help solve my dilemma. I’ve got to be in Hertfordshire at my cousin’s wedding reception this evening!’
That was a tough one, thought Jake. The Tube was shut and London was gridlocked. There wasn’t much chance of her making it out to the sticks in time.
‘We can’t have you dressed like that and not getting to this wedding now, can we? If I get you to Euston station, can you catch a train from there in time?’
‘Yes, but how are you going to do that? It’s going to take me hours!’ wailed Alice.
‘Don’t panic,’ said Jake, ‘I have a plan.’
He got up from his chair and grabbed Alice by the hand. She didn’t resist. She squeezed his palm back as he led her through the police station’s corridors. There were bomb survivors pointing and laughing at the clothes they’d been bought by the other officers. Two were fighting over who claimed a short-sleeved shirt, and another was asking if they could swap the red Marks and Spencer’s jumper for a blue one.
Jake led Alice through the station and out toward the back yard. Every warm-blooded male that they passed turned and glanced admiringly at her.
Jake helped settle her in the front passenger seat of the BMW, closing her door gently. Checking that she was strapped in correctly, he proceeded to put his foot to the floor and drive with blue lights and two tones all the way across London.
Travelling directly north from Brixton to Euston station took just over ten minutes. Alice’s smile lit up the inside of the car the whole way.
Jake stopped in a service area adjacent to the train station.
‘Thank you, Detective Inspector Jake Flannagan,’ she said as she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.
‘You’re most welcome,’ he replied.
‘Perhaps I’ll be in touch, when this all quietens down?’ she said. ‘Take care.’
Alice got out of the car and walked to the station.
It had been an extraordinary few days. Alice and many others could have been dead – but instead, here she was in a new dress, new shoes; she’d had a whirlwind ride in a police car with flashing lights and sirens, driven by an admiring detective and had an amazing story to tell to the other wedding guests about why she was late.
He couldn’t ever envisage things quietening down. There was never enough time to see his kids or his girlfriend as it was. There were people to catch. No time for anything. Jake envied Alice as she waved a final farewell at the top of the steps and moved closer toward her point of exit from London.
&n
bsp; ‘Enjoy the wedding, Alice – thank me in the next life,’ he said to himself as he pulled the car back into the road and sped off back to Brixton.
The drive back was more relaxed. Thousands of people were walking the streets in the late afternoon sun; there were no Tubes. The pavements were busier than Jake had ever seen them, teeming with people trying to get home from work. The main roads were jammed with traffic.
Sat at a set of red traffic lights at the top of Great Portland Street with his window wound down, Jake watched two men with briefcases saunter past his car. Engrossed in their conversation, there were smiles and laughter as they chatted and walked. Jake wondered if they’d have had that conversation on a crowded and noisy train.
Two weeks ago Wasim and his gang had maimed and killed fifty-two of these people. Today someone had tried again, but they’d failed.
Londoners were a hardy bunch. They just got on with it. They had to. There was no choice. Bomb or no bombs – life had to go on. Jake imagined that this was how London behaved during the Blitz. People pulled together. They looked after each other. Through all this doom and gloom they still found time to laugh.
Even Jake had forgotten the earlier chaos for a moment or two as he enjoyed his time with Alice. Two people thrown together in a terrible situation could still find that spark, that attraction. A moment of fun.
32
Thursday
21 July 2005
2000 hours
Brixton police station, south London
Back at Brixton, Jake continued taking statements. More witnesses had been directed to the station. All wanted to help catch the people responsible and all sat there patiently waiting for their turn to be seen.
It was 2300 hours the next time Jake grabbed a chance to look at his watch. Time for a cup of tea and a bite to eat, he thought, making a move for the canteen.
The serving hatch was closed, metal shutters locked in place over the counter. Two vending machines lit up the corner, touting their wares at him like a couple of brothel windows in Amsterdam. Chocolate-bar dinner it was to be, then. Jake fished around in his pocket for some change and dragged out forty-four pence. There wasn’t even enough for any chocolate – just enough for a cup of mouth-blistering tea, in a small beige plastic cup, two-thirds full.
He sat down at a table in the deserted canteen and pulled out his mobile to dial Claire’s number. It rang several times before clicking through to answerphone.
He hung up without leaving a message and sipped the braised brown liquid, scalding his tongue in the process.
His phone rang.
‘Hi,’ Jake answered, hoping it was Claire.
‘Jake, it’s Helen. Can you meet Ian from exhibits at Golders Green underground station at 0030 hours please?’
‘What for?’
‘They need to drive the train from the Oval to Golders Green, separate the carriage the suspect was in, lift it off the tracks there and put the carriage on the back of a lorry so that exhibits can take it away to deal with forensics. Ian is going to travel on the carriage for continuity of the exhibit. You need to meet him at the other end, make sure he’s happy and that everything goes smoothly when they lift it off. Oh, and most importantly, give him a lift back into town.’
‘OK,’ replied Jake wearily.
‘We’ve block-booked a load of rooms at the Cumberland Hotel at the top of Park Lane. Get your head down there when you’ve finished that – I need to talk to you in the morning at the Yard.’
‘What time?’
‘0900 hours.’
Jake finally got his head down at 0430 hours. Going home to check on Ted wasn’t an option.
33
Friday
22 July 2005
0915 hours
New Scotland Yard, Westminster, London
Jake stood outside Helen’s office. He’d been waiting for fifteen minutes. Two DIs before him had walked out without saying a word. There was pressure to get results. Everyone was too busy for chit-chat.
Helen’s office was just wide enough for a desk and a couple of chairs. It was cosy, yet there was no handshake and no eye contact. It was unlike her.
‘You OK, Helen?’ Jake attempted pleasantries to normalise the situation, when really all he wanted was for his boss to get to the point.
‘We’re splitting the team in half. Half on the 7/7 bombings – Operation Theseus – and half on the 21/7 bombings – Operation Vivace. Vivace is our priority – we have live suspects who have tried to detonate devices. Forget 7/7.’
Helen was in full ‘telling mode’ – there was no negotiating.
‘But, Helen – they’re the same job. Same group of people,’ interrupted Jake.
‘Where’s the evidence of that? It’s just copycat stuff – that’s what the Security Service have told us…’
‘They did? They said there was no connection?’ Jake couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
‘You heard me, Jake! That’s what they said! They’ve given us a few names. People that they suspect. There are surveillance teams looking for them now.’
Helen looked him directly in the eyes. It was time for Jake to listen and not speak.
‘I want you to go to Harrow. One of the names we have – possibly one of those involved yesterday – well, I want the next-door neighbour interviewed. He’s a white Muslim convert who was seen dancing around in the garden in the early hours of the morning after the suspect left. You will not make arrests without permission. You will not go rogue.’
Helen passed Jake a sheet of paper with the name and address of the person she wanted interviewed. ‘You come back when it’s done – I need you on Vivace. These guys are alive and running around somewhere.’
Jake got up and left the room. He said nothing to Helen as he left. He walked to the end of the corridor and started to climb the stairs to the sixteenth floor. He could hear footsteps above him and looked up to see Detective Chief Superintendent Richard Smith on his way down. Normally a jovial chap who said hello, today he didn’t even make eye contact.
‘You OK, guv’nor?’ asked Jake, trying to catch his attention.
DCS Smith looked at him. His eyes were red. He looked exhausted and upset. ‘Not really. We just shot someone dead at London Bridge.’
‘Jesus!’ exclaimed Jake, genuinely surprised.
‘It was a mess. I think we shot the wrong bloke.’ DCS Smith looked down at the ground and continued his walk down the stairs.
Jake just stood there, rooted to the spot. Two terrorist attacks on London and now police were shooting people dead? The wrong people dead? This wasn’t London any more. This was a place he didn’t recognise.
He’d lived in the capital his whole life; thought he understood how it worked, what made it tick, what excited it. He knew the good and the bad and still loved it. But this? This wasn’t London. He thought about his daughters. Was this the place he wanted them growing up?
34
Friday
22 July 2005
1107 hours
New Scotland Yard, Westminster, London
Jake stood in the stairwell of the fifteenth floor and called Claire.
He didn’t wait for her to say anything. The moment he heard it connect, he started shouting.
‘What the fuck? Tell me! Just what the fuckin’ hell are you lot doing? Wednesday fucking night I told you there were explosives in that place. Wednesday fucking night! They would have killed loads more on Thursday had it not been for me!’
‘Jake, Jake… calm down,’ Claire tried to talk over him.
‘And now, this morning, you lot have got the world’s biggest fucking surveillance fucking operation on in London. You knew all the names all along! You knew, for fuck’s sake!’
‘Jake. Stop it!’
‘Stop it? It’s a good job I did. You didn’t try to st
op it did you?’ Jake’s temper had got the better of him.
Claire came back at him. ‘Really? So how the fuck did you find your way to that flat, DI Flannagan? How? Who gave you the leg-up?’
‘You wanted me to check it out, not actually go in there – you so said yourself. We’ve shot someone by mistake just now – needlessly. It could have been avoided had we nicked that lot on Wednesday!’
‘Yes, I wanted you to show an interest in that flat. Snoop around. You did. By hook, by crook, by being clever or by sheer luck, Jake – you should be thanking me that you went there, not fucking screaming at me… And as for shooting the wrong bloke – maybe they shouldn’t give guns to stupid halfwits like you police officers!’
The line went dead. Claire had hung up on him again.
‘Halfwits?’ Jake mumbled to himself as he walked down the concrete stairs.
On his way out of the building, Jake’s mobile rang.
It was Helen. She sounded flustered. Bad news travelled fast amongst police officers. Jake knew instantly what it was about.
‘Jake – cancel going to Harrow. There’s been a fuck up… we’ve shot someone. We don’t know who it is yet,’ Helen continued. ‘This is getting out of hand. We can’t cope. The Met can’t cope. We need to catch these maniacs. Fast. There’s a bomb factory in north London this lot used, just been found…’
Jake had to bite his tongue from shouting the words ‘Sullivan House’ down the phone.
‘Jake, you need to organise the guys over there to make house-to-house enquiries. Do what you do best. Find these people.’
‘Message understood, boss,’ he said as he left the building.
Jake didn’t ask the address before he hung up. He sorely hoped that Helen hadn’t noticed.
THE THESEUS PARADOX: The stunning breakthrough thriller based on real events, from the Scotland Yard detective turned author. Page 10