‘We currently have seventeen drives, sir. That’s an awful lot of slack space to be looking at…’
‘Do you need more manpower?’ asked Denswood.
‘Each file, each space needs to be looked at and assessed individually. Of course, more people would us help, sir.’
‘How many do you need? Ten, twenty? Just tell me. We need to move on with this stuff.’
‘I need to look at how much capacity we have currently and come back to you later today, sir. Is that OK?’
They were no further forward and Jake had gleaned little else from the others who spoke throughout the rest of the meeting. It seemed as though everyone was literally looking into slack space. Things were limping along listlessly. The MIR was churning out actions; various small teams were going through them and sending them back to the MIR, only to generate yet more actions back from them.
‘Have you got anything to add, Jake? Have your team found anything of note?’ Denswood barked over the video link, startling Jake.
‘Yes, sir. I have a question. I’d like to know if the stuff we hoovered from the flat above the sandwich shop has been submitted for analysis yet by exhibits?’
‘Yes, Jake. It’s been sent off. We’re awaiting the results,’ replied Ian, the exhibits officer.
‘You’re still convinced this was a bomb factory, Jake?’ asked Denswood. ‘Have you made any progress with owner of the place yet?’
Jake took a sip from his mug of water. His throat was dry.
‘Yes, sir. I am still convinced. The more I talk to Shahid Bassam, the more I dislike him and the more holes I find in his account. What he’s trying to cover up with those lies is a different question.’
‘Like what? Give me an example of the lies,’ asked Denswood.
‘I’m still looking at what he’s said and pulling it apart. He claims that he first met Wasim by chance outside a mosque one day. That’s a lie. The phone records show that they were in contact for quite some time prior to the date when he claims they initially became acquainted. There are other inconsistencies but I’m working on how to prove them at the moment. It sounds minor, I know, but, well, I don’t like him.’
‘I need more than a hunch, Jake. Let’s wait and see what comes up on the forensics. Thank you, all. Same time again next week please.’
92
Tuesday
6 September 2005
0928 hours
Dudley Hill police station, Bradford, West Yorkshire
It was video link time with London again. Jake turned on the monitor and camera. Someone at the other end accepted the video call and the TV screen filled with a blurred image. The cameras took a while to warm up and the picture remained fuzzy for some time after the screen came on. He could see hordes of officers beginning to traipse into the meeting room at Scotland Yard.
Someone had left yesterday’s newspaper on the table. Jake thumbed through it. The front page was dominated by a photo of a devastated New Orleans. Hurricane Katrina had caused a storm surge. At least 80% of the city was flooded, and thousands were believed to be dead. It was being reported that law and order had completely broken down and people had to fend for themselves. There were complaints that the US government was doing very little. Michael Jackson had indicated that he was going to launch a charity single to help.
On an inside spread, Jake spotted a photo of Wasim Khan. There was an article about his suicide video, which had been broadcast by Al Jazeera TV.
The meeting started as Jake was still reading.
‘Good morning all,’ announced Denswood. ‘Let’s get straight into this, I’ve got a lot on today. I’m assuming you’ve all seen the video of Wasim Khan on the news? If you haven’t, the MIR has a copy. There are no surprises contained within it, to be quite honest. He talks about the reasons he decided to martyr himself. Iraq, Afghanistan and Palestine are all mentioned. It’s the sort of thing we’ve seen before, created by other suicide bombers on the internet. We’ve had people looking at it for clues as to where it was made. Initial assessments are that it was filmed in Pakistan at some point between November 2004 and February 2005.
‘The video has been released by al-Qaeda’s media arm and uses their graphics. Take from that what you will. What strikes us as odd is the length of time that they’ve left before releasing the video. It could be that they were just waiting for the dust to settle on the blast sites… Next item: DI Flannagan. I believe that Ian from exhibits has some news for you. Ian?’ Denswood paused.
Jake closed his newspaper.
Ian cleared his throat and took the stage. ‘Yes. The hoover contents from the flat above the sandwich shop. The results have come back. We were looking to see whether the sample tested positive for any form of explosives. In particular some trace of hexamethylene triperoxide diamine, otherwise known as HMTD. HMTD is highly explosive. It’s mainly used for initiators as it responds well to shock, friction and electrostatic charges. It would be very easy to set off a bomb via an HMTD initiator using a nine-volt battery like the one Asif Rahman purchased in Boots before he blew himself up on the bus. The hydrogen-peroxide-based explosives we found at the Victoria Park flat would have needed an initiator. HMTD would have been highly suited to this purpose…’
Jake realised he was holding his breath.
The exhibits officer continued, ‘We normally find HMTD traces in quantities measured in micrograms, but in this case, we didn’t…’
Jake’s heart sank.
‘No. This time we found something very different. In this case we’ve found it in milligrams. To explain, that’s a thousand times more HMTD explosive than we would normally expect to find. To put it another way, there was enough explosives residue from that one, single square metre of carpet to blow up the whole street. Frankly I’m amazed the hoover alone didn’t set off an explosion!’
There was a collective gasp from all those listening on the video link.
Jake felt a mixture of excitement and elation.
‘Well done. Now how are we getting on with the owner of this property?’ asked Denswood in a flat, emotionless, tone. He seemed wholly unimpressed by this news.
‘Thank you, sir. Well, I’ve spoken with him a couple of times. He’s constantly changing his story about what happened. He’s going to admit he’s lied, I think, and possibly that he’s disposed of evidence. I think we should arrest him, sir.’
‘Do you think he’s directly involved in the plot, Jake?’
Jake paused. He ran through all the possible pieces of evidence he knew about the flat. The text messages between the bombers that he’d read; the phone data that he’d pawed over. It all said Shahid wasn’t the mastermind behind the bombings. But the look Jake had seen in Shahid’s eyes, the feeling in his gut when the man spoke to him, Jake knew there was something more to this whole thing.
‘I don’t think so, but he’s hiding something. Whatever he’s hiding is important…’
‘What makes you think that he’s going to say any more to you while under arrest and in interview, Jake? If we arrest him and take him to Paddington Green, what incentive is there for him to tell the truth then?’
‘It’s not so much about him telling the truth; he isn’t doing that even now. It’s more about getting under this bloke’s skin. Finding out what he has to hide, what he keeps in his house, the books he reads, what’s on his computer, if he keeps porn mags under his mattress. We need to know what makes him tick; we need to make our own luck. Arresting him gives us those options, the opportunity of turning something up.’
Jake had finished making his plea. There was a lull.
Denswood didn’t speak immediately. He was thinking.
‘Hmm… I’ll talk to the Security Service, see what they know about him, get their views on it, but I’m of the opinion he’s more useful as a witness than a suspect, unless you can convince me otherwise, Jake?’
Jake hated this about the Anti-Terrorist Branch. In any other area of policing, they would have had Shahid banged up in a cell, sweating, while Jake rifled through everything he could get his hands on from his home, his place of work, his car. No one was that good; they all left little clues behind about what they were really doing. They could swear blind to your face, but they normally slipped up somewhere along the line. Jake could always find something of interest if he looked hard enough. But this wasn’t any other place…
‘Yes, sir,’ he sighed.
Denswood moved on.
93
Wednesday
14 September 2005
1130 hours
Strood, Kent
Jake and Lenny parked on what looked like a recently relayed, block-paving drive. A white Transit van faced the large bay window of the 1930s semi. Two stickers were visible on its rear doors; one a St George’s flag and, next to it, one proclaiming ‘English by birth, a Gooner by the grace of God.’
Jake knocked at the pillar-box-red front door. A broad, bald-headed man answered, wearing a black sweatshirt, stonewashed blue jeans and white trainers.
Kenny Savage was thirty-five-years old. Jake had done his research before contacting him. Kenny had a criminal record that included two assaults, one transgression for pitch invasion at Arsenal and a penchant for protesting outside of mosques. He was said to have links to the British National Party.
‘Good morning, you must be Mr Flannagan?’ Kenny extended his hand toward Jake to greet him. Jake was surprised at how well spoken Kenny was. He didn’t sound at all like the fascist, right-wing, football hooligan that Jake had been expecting.
The two men shook hands. Kenny stood to one side of the door and ushered Jake and Lenny inside. In the hallway was an expensive-looking mahogany side table below a crystal-framed mirror. The carpet was a rich, dark burgundy with a luxurious feel. The place was plush, thought Jake, as Kenny showed them into the living room.
Kenny gestured for them to sit on a large, white, leather settee.
‘Can I get you a tea or a coffee, gents?’ asked Kenny.
‘Coffee, white, three sugars for me please,’ said Lenny.
‘Haha, a man after my own heart, sir,’ came the reply.
Jake didn’t normally accept drinks from people who’d had run-ins with the Old Bill through fear that they might spit in it, or worse. But Kenny seemed quite civilised and pleasant. Why not?
‘I’ll have a tea, please. White, one sugar,’ replied Jake.
‘Give me two seconds,’ said Kenny as he made his way to the kitchen.
Jake looked around at the meticulously arranged living room. Cream walls, a huge blush marble fireplace with large orange crystals in the grate. Photos of an attractive blonde woman in her thirties and two young girls sat on the mantelpiece above. The place smelled of upmarket, lavender air freshener.
A few minutes later, Kenny returned holding a tray with three mugs and a selection of foil-wrapped chocolate biscuits in a variety of different flavours.
‘Blimey, we don’t get treated this well by anyone,’ quipped Lenny.
‘Happy to help you gentleman as best I can. Even if it’s just with a few biscuits,’ said Kenny as he passed out the cups and sat down in a white leather armchair opposite them.
‘So you said on the phone that you wanted to talk about Shahid Bassam?’
‘Yes, you were listed on the files as a witness to the incident in which Shahid Bassam was assaulted. The crime report is a little bland. It simply says that you were demonstrating near a mosque in the East End about the spread of Islam, which you disagreed with. Shahid Bassam was nearby and, after a short altercation, your friend punched him in the face. But there was nothing further on the report. Can you tell us anything else about the incident?’ asked Jake.
Kenny cradled his mug in both hands and leaned his huge frame forward toward the two officers. ‘Well, there is a bit more to it. I’m sure the report said that I’m a member of the BNP. I am, but don’t share all of their views. I’m part of a group that’s splintering off from the BNP. We are against the Islamification of the UK. We’re based around firms within football supporters’ clubs. We’re patriots who think Islam is wrong.
‘That demonstration was about them building a huge, great big, mega-mosque on that East End site. Seventy thousand Muslims they’ll have worshipping up there. The boys at the Inter City Firm of West Ham are up in arms about it. How can you build a mosque that size? That’s bigger than St Paul’s Cathedral for fuck’s sake. That’s bigger than Old Trafford! We can’t have that!
‘I’ve grown up here. I’ve got two beautiful girls, a wife and a family. I don’t want my kids growing up in a society where they might be forced to wear a burka.
‘Great big mosques mean more Muslims moving into the area. The place becomes a ghetto, hundreds of them living in the same house. Illegal immigrants from Pakistan and places like that, people who work like slaves for no money at all, in Muslim-only companies. That forces people like me out, forces down the wages in the local economy, the place slowly becomes a slum and the houses end up being worth nothing. The richer Muslims become the landlords. They buy up all the cheap housing stock and bring in more illegal immigrants to work as virtual slaves. It all starts with the mosque. We can’t have it.’
Jake was silent for a moment. He thought about Shahid’s supermarket up in Leeds and the men with no socks; the men wearing sandals who’d all scattered when he’d arrived.
‘OK. I’m not sure I buy into your apocalyptic view. Tell me why you and your friend had an altercation with Shahid?’ Jake asked.
‘Look at me. I’m twenty stone. I’m big. I stand out from the crowd. Bassam turned up in his flash Range Rover. I was told by the Inter City crew that he was a bigwig from up north. They’d seen him before. I wouldn’t let him past in the road. Stood in front of his car, wouldn’t move. He gets out, the flash cunt, all fucking bling, but wearing the traditional Muslim clobber. Comes over to me and says, ‘You will never win this fight.’ My friend thought he was going to hit me so he just punched him first, straight in the fucking face. Bassam got back in his car and drove into the mosque area – it’s just a load of Portakabins at the moment, but it’s a huge site. Next thing I know, the Old Bill turn up and they nick my mate.
‘They reckoned we called him a Paki. We didn’t! I don’t give a fuck about him being a Paki. I’d happily live near him, but I won’t have him and his type turning huge parts of the country into ghettos. I won’t have a mega-mosque that takes over London and dwarfs St Paul’s Cathedral. This is a Christian country. If Pakistan is so fantastic, why do they all come here to live? Why not stay over there? They come over here, take our jobs, turn the places they live into cesspools just like where they came from. Why? You tell me, Mr Flannagan, why would they do that? Why should we sit by and watch that happen?’
‘You’d happily live next door to a “Paki”? By that you mean Pakistani, Mr Savage, yes?’ Jake asked him.
‘It’s a colloquialism, isn’t it? Paki? You know what I mean, don’t ya?’
‘I tend to call people by their actual name, myself, Mr Savage. Rather than a term which may be deemed offensive.’
‘Offensive? What?’
‘Well, the term “Paki” could be construed as a racist slur,’ said Jake carefully.
‘What do you want with me? I’m trying to be helpful! My mate should never have been nicked. That Paki was going to assault me and now you’re calling me a racist while eating my chocolate biscuits, which, I might add, are brown like some people’s faces. Not my face though, thank God. Imagine that? Fuck no, the thieving, dirty, darkie Paki cunts!’ Kenny let out a big belly laugh as he finished his sentence.
Kenny’s mask had well and truly slipped. The pleasant, well-spoken man that had greeted them at the door was gone, replaced by a racist, swearing t
hug.
Jake glanced at his mug of tea. It tasted odd. He placed the half-eaten chocolate biscuit down on the glass coffee table, along with his half-empty cup of tea.
‘Listen…’ said Kenny ‘…I’m just winding you up. I know all you coppers think the same as me underneath. You’re just not allowed to show it. So I won’t say any more about it, OK? You didn’t tell me why you were interested in Bassam anyway? What’s he done?’
‘We just wanted some background on him. Wondered how he had come to get involved in a fracas with “nice” men from Strood, like yourself, up in London, outside a mosque.’ Jake hoped he had accentuated the word nice enough for Kenny to see he was being sarcastic.
‘Look, I own my own air-conditioning company. I own my own home. I pay my way, pay my taxes, play by the rules. I have a proper family with proper Christian values. My girls are treated with respect in their community. They can go out and work. They can be equal to men. All they have to do is make sure his dinner’s on the table at six.
‘The Pakis, they come here as a minority, screaming at the top of their fucking stupid voices, and it’s us that should fucking fit around them, us that should give way to their demands. Fuck ’em! They can fuck off back home.
‘Look what happened in London – 7/7. Fucking shitters, that’s what we’ve got for decades of pandering to these cunts and trying to appease them. I saw this coming a mile off. They start moving into an area and it’s like a plague. All the white people’s businesses are undercut; they go bust. The Muslim businesses move in. They don’t let the money out of their own little circle. All cash, no paperwork, nothing done properly, no taxes and people working like slaves for a pittance…You have kids, Mr Flannagan?’
Jake looked up at the happy, smiling girls in the photo on the mantelpiece and was reminded of his own.
‘Yes,’ he replied.
THE THESEUS PARADOX: The stunning breakthrough thriller based on real events, from the Scotland Yard detective turned author. Page 26