THE THESEUS PARADOX: The stunning breakthrough thriller based on real events, from the Scotland Yard detective turned author. (13 page)
Authors: David Videcette
Tags: #No. 30, #Subway, #Jake, #Victim, #Scotland Yard, #London Underground, #Police, #England, #Flannagan, #7/7, #Muslim, #British, #thriller, #Bus, #Religion, #Terrorism, #Tube, #Tavistock Square, #Extremism, #Metropolitan Police, #Detective, #Fundamentalist, #Conspiracy Theory, #Britain, #Bombings, #Explosion, #London, #Bomb, #Crime, #Terrorist, #Extremist, #July 2005, #Islam, #Inspector, #Murder, #Islamic, #Bus Bomb, #Plot, #Underground, #7th July, #Number 30 (bus), #Capital, #Fundamentalism, #terror
BOOK: THE THESEUS PARADOX: The stunning breakthrough thriller based on real events, from the Scotland Yard detective turned author.
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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.
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.
‘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.’
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 stop 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.
35
Friday
22 July 2005
1300 hours
Sullivan House, New Southgate, north London
Jake pulled up at the sixties tower block in north London for the second time that week. This time around, though, there were several ATB officers by the communal front door, drinking coffee from takeaway cups. It reminded Jake of a picket line.
‘What
are
you lot
doing
?’ he snapped.
are
you lot
doing
?’ he snapped.
‘Just grabbing a cup of coffee, guv,’ said one of the more senior DCs.
‘What enquiries have you done? What have you found out?’
There was silence.
‘Throw that fucking coffee away. Get your fucking arses moving and start banging on doors. I want answers. Who lived here? Who were their friends? What car did they drive? Where do they work? There are terrorists on the loose and a man’s been shot dead; you’re standing there drinking coffee. Move it. Now!’
They threw their coffee into a bin and walked off. Sometimes you needed to crack the whip to get people moving. Even in situations like this, thought Jake.
He got back into his car and called Claire.
‘Jake – I’m sorry. Thank you. I flagged the address up as best I could. It was given to a team to look at. Not fast enough. Thank the Lord you got there and messed up their explosives,’ she blurted out.
‘I don’t get how you can have all that intelligence and not see the wood for the trees. It was obvious,’ replied Jake.
‘I’ll call you back,’ said Claire. ‘I have some things I need to sort out.’
It was too muggy to sit in the vehicle. He got out and leant against the side, wondering when Claire would call him back with an update. Bruise-coloured clouds shrouded the sun and darkened everything, including Jake’s mood.
Jake was annoyed with Claire, but he was also annoyed at himself for being annoyed with her, which made it even worse. They’d been seeing each other again on and off for a while now. When they were together it was intense – just like it had been when they were at university. Yet he’d been fighting with himself not to become too involved, because she’d given him no indication that she felt the same as he did.
They had good times, laughter, great sex and interesting conversations. Jake liked her. Maybe he liked her too much? But recently he’d seen little of her. She didn’t seem to want to commit to anything more. Her behaviour was unsettling. It meant that he had begun to enjoy any attention he could get from other females. A bit like the rah-rah-skirted woman in the club – before the guilt set in.
Jake hated himself for becoming emotionally involved with anyone, but he desperately needed to be needed. He didn’t really understand why. Perhaps there was an emotional deficit there as a result of his father not being at home when he was little.
Jake mostly satisfied his needs with work. There was always someone that needed him at work. And when there wasn’t and Claire wasn’t around? His flirty nature reared its ugly head to stave off the loneliness. But that led to him getting more annoyed at himself that the desire for praise and attention crossed over into his private life. He’d failed. Mustn’t let that happen.
‘Do some work, Jake. Don’t think about it!’ he told himself.
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