THE THESEUS PARADOX: The stunning breakthrough thriller based on real events, from the Scotland Yard detective turned author. (4 page)

‘But I was working on two people who appeared on our plot, Helen. They went into an address and spent time with suspects who have now been charged with terrorism; suspects who were making a bomb to blow people up,’ he replied. ‘Those guys from Leeds
must
be at it. The only reason we’re not working on them is that the Security Service are calling the shots and making us hold off. This is a stupid way of doing things! Have you read what those Leeds guys were saying back in Feb 2004, in Crawley, Helen? What the probe picked up? The Service says “they were just talking about finance”. Bullshit were they
just
talking about that!

‘One of the Leeds guys was asking to go on a one-way trip to Afghanistan – a bloody suicide mission. They talked about using his name and details to scam banks and credit cards when he was gone, because both parties knew he wasn’t going to come back again!

‘Yes it was finance and fraud – but within the context of a conversation where the fuckwit wants to go and blow himself up abroad, probably killing US and UK service personnel in the process. That’s terrorism, that’s a crime, that’s a police matter – and we have the evidence.

‘It’s crazy to think that
we
– the police – can’t act on that because it’s not the right thing to do for…
national-security
reasons. I mean, how does it protect anyone in our nation? Letting these guys go and do that?’

Jake could feel himself getting angry. He was determined that this wasn’t going to be dropped – incensed that anyone would even think of doing such a thing.

His boss was usually unwavering in her support of him – continually fighting his corner and providing that extra emotional engagement that the boy in him constantly craved. Today, he felt ungrateful; his tone showed none of the usual respect for Helen and Helen’s rank.

She took a deep breath. Jake could sense immediately that this wasn’t a good sign.

‘Look, Jake, the Security Service have the whole picture. They know how these guys fit into that picture. Taking them out of the game might interfere with some other job that’s being worked on somewhere else – that’s why it works this way. Leave it alone. Let the Service get on with it. No more trips to Leeds.’

‘But…’ Jake trailed off as Helen’s hands motioned for him to drop it.

Jake had pushed it as far as he could go. He knew he was in serious danger of jeopardising his current position and maybe even Helen’s promotion too. There was no use in him banging his head against a brick wall.

‘Maybe you need some time off, Jake?’

‘Do I? Why?’ Jake was surprised by her question.

‘Maybe – if I’m honest with you, Jake – I’m a little worried about you. You’ve lost your mother
and
grandmother recently. On top of that you walked out on your wife and kids…’

Jake could tell Helen wasn’t finished.

‘…and you know I’m not one to plug into the rumour mill, but… upper management are asking me questions about what they’re hearing.’

‘Like what?’ Jake asked a little worriedly.

‘ “Is he drinking too much?”, “What’s the truth in all this talk about dalliances with female colleagues?”, “If he’s out on the lash all the time, can he be trusted?”, “Are we OK with his vetting?” – you know what this place is like…’

‘What the hell has my vetting got to do with it?’

‘If you’re drinking too much that
could
be an issue for the vetting office, Jake. If you’re enjoying
too
much pillow talk with
too
many strange women it
could
be an issue for the vetting office…
Semper Occultus
.’

Semper Occultus
was Latin for ‘Always Secret’ – the Security Service motto. Vetting was about ensuring that you knew who your people outside of work were, about what they got up to. That they didn’t participate in risky behaviour such as taking drugs or attending swingers’ parties; that they were at the lowest risk of possible compromise; that they couldn’t be blackmailed easily.

‘I don’t need to tell you this stuff, do I? Reputation is a big thing here, Jake.’ Helen sounded slightly annoyed.

‘Helen – you know what this place is like. According to rumours I’ve slept with every woman here, including you… and we both know that rumour isn’t true, don’t we? So why should the rest of it be?’

‘Yes, I’d heard that one doing the rounds as well…’ she said, unamused. ‘Look, aside from the rumours, I know things are tough for you right now. I’ve seen you out drinking, flirting, messing about with the girls from the MIR. I know that stuff is all likely a symptom of what’s been going on in your private life, but – it keeps these rumours going, Jake. These are all things that
could
be an issue with vetting if we have a mistake or a problem arises that they can hang that stuff on. You’ve got to be careful.’

‘Fair point, I hear you. I appreciate you mentioning it. None of it’s a problem, honestly…’ Jake sounded like he was trying to convince himself as well as Helen.

The truth was he didn’t really know if his behaviour
was
a problem. There was the odd strange woman and he was drinking most nights. But everyone drank, didn’t they? All warm-blooded men needed a bit of female attention sometimes, didn’t they?

‘Yes, maybe I should take some time off,’ he acquiesced. ‘Just a few days, but might be longer. That OK?’

‘No problem. What are you going to do? Where will you be if we need you?’

‘Going to pop to Manchester. Pal of mine is having a tough time at home – be good to see him and check out the nightlife…’ He winked at her and smiled. ‘Plus it will put some distance between me and this Leeds stuff, I think.’

‘Great idea, Jake. Just slow down a bit on the old drinking. I know it’s hard with everything that’s gone on. Take the car with you, just in case we need you back quickly,’ she replied as she got up and made her exit.

Jake sat in silence, alone in the meeting room. His mind wandered.

Leeds was only forty miles from Manchester. Thirty-odd minutes if you put your foot down.

6

Thursday

7 July 2005

1203 hours

Leeds General Infirmary

Jake awoke wearing a flimsy green cotton robe. He was lying in a hospital bed. He touched his head and found there was a dressing on the front of it. He hobbled to the nurses’ station. They were all watching the news on TV, engrossed in it; they hadn’t even seen him get up. Walking round to the rear of the counter he could make out the large, rolling Sky News headlines on the screen, which read: ‘London Terror Attacks’.

His heart felt like it had stopped beating. His chest hurt.

‘No. Please. NO!’

An attractive blonde nurse with freckles looked up at him and smiled.

‘You’re awake. How are you feeling?’ she asked in a broad Yorkshire accent.

‘I feel like shit. Where am I and what happened?’ asked Jake groggily.

A young male nurse came over to steady him. He walked Jake back to his bed, sat him down and gave him some water. ‘Hello, sir. Feeling better after your accident?’ he asked.

Jake realised the confusion on his face was evident, because the male nurse took pity on him. ‘You had a car accident… a nasty one. You hit the central reservation on the M1 in your car. Do you remember?’

‘They threw something at me – it exploded in the road…’ Jake tailed off.

‘Who threw something at you? No, I overheard the paramedics talking – the police said there was no other car involved,’ said the male nurse. He handed Jake a couple of painkillers and went on his way.

Jake got up gingerly. Next to his bed he found a locker containing a property bag full of his tattered, ripped clothes. Hidden amongst them he spotted his warrant card and sighed with relief. It was always grief with a capital ‘G’ if anyone lost theirs.

Just as importantly, both his police credit card and his personal debit card were intact and tucked safely inside, meaning he had ready access to escape funds.

He scooped up his belongings, looking for a nearby toilet in which to change, but found that his clothes were in pieces, cut by the hospital when he’d been unconscious. He beckoned the male nurse back over, who kindly found him some charity hand-me-down baggy jeans and a Def Leppard T-shirt. At least they were clean and in one piece. The hospital staff were used to sorting out people who found themselves in an unfortunate position with no clothing – but not usually ones who’d been chasing cars full of nail bombs down the M1.

At reception he requested to be released from the hospital’s care. The female nurse with the freckles and broad Yorkshire accent he’d met earlier pushed some forms toward him. Jake signed his discharge documents.

There was a mirror on the wall behind the nurse. Jake caught his reflection. He looked awful.

‘We informed your next of kin you were here, Mr Flannagan. The police gave us the contact details. Your wife I believe it was…’

‘Ex-wife. She divorced me. Too many nights away from home, waking up in strange beds…’

‘You wake up in hospital beds often?’

Jake gave her a wry smile.

The truth was that Jake had walked out on his wife. There had been no one else at the time. He’d been married five years – Stephanie, the kind of woman everyone referred to as a ‘lovely lady’. Yet he couldn’t go back; he didn’t have a time machine.

And deep down he wanted to believe that he’d made the right decision.

They’d had two girls together, but both the kids and Jake’s job had put so much space between them that he began to feel he barely knew her. He was away most weeks with work. There was no time for ‘them’ any more. Jake felt unwanted. Unloved. Unneeded.

One day, whilst Jake had been away working, his mother had called.

‘I’ve got cancer, Jake. They’ve given me two years – we’ll just have to make the most of it,’ she’d said.

Jake carried on working. Six weeks later his mother could barely talk as she lay in a hospice bed riddled with the disease. Then she was gone, gone forever; gone faster than it took the tears to roll down his face.

Life was so short.

Two-point-four children, two cars, mowing the lawn on a Sunday, unkempt bikini lines, sex with the lights off, spag Bol on a Monday, Saturdays spent shopping.

Did his mother die before she realised that it was all humdrum, pointless nonsense? Did he really want all that for the next thirty or forty years? That normality? That sort of routine?

Jake felt you only got one shot at life. He was of the belief that every day should be an exciting journey spent feeling good about yourself.

Was Stephanie really what he wanted? Had she really wanted him? He loved his two girls dearly, and he loved Stephanie – but had he done all the things he wanted to do?

He remembered the countless arguments; being ignored and made to feel shitty because he forgot to buy some pasta at the supermarket and got a Mars Bar instead.

What was the point of feeling shitty all the time? Feeling like you were second best? Inferior?

He’d walked out one day. Said he needed a break – time to sort his head out. He’d spent several weeks inside a bottle of whisky.

But sometimes, just sometimes, at the end of the day, Jake looked at the four walls that surrounded him and wondered if homemade spaghetti Bolognese on a Monday night might have been the better option.

On days like those, he’d have liked a bit of normal.

Two years later and he was still trying to figure it out – an attractive nurse with a good figure made it no easier.

‘Mr Flannagan, you shouldn’t really be leaving the hospital,’ said the nurse. ‘You’ve had a very nasty bang to the head.’

‘I can’t stay. There are things to do,’ replied Jake.

She gave him his prescribed pain medications, guessing he wouldn’t be hanging around waiting for a discharge prescription and made him promise to get his stitches removed in a week or so. Jake nodded in agreement, knowing full well he’d end up doing it himself, as always.

He made it out to the car park in a daze before realising he didn’t actually know which hospital he’d been in. The sign outside put him straight. He had no phone and no car – he had to contact the office. It was only a five-minute walk into the city centre; he needed to clear his head and decided to aim for Millgarth police station, next to the bus depot and markets.

7

Thursday

7 July 2005

1255 hours

Millgarth police station, Leeds, West Yorkshire

Millgarth police station looked like it should be a multi-storey car park from the outside. Architecturally speaking it was not one of the prettiest buildings Leeds had to offer. Jake had visited a couple of times whilst he’d been working up north; red brick with a nasty, bare-concrete staircase at the front, and few windows.

The place had a lot to answer for. West Yorkshire Police had orchestrated the Yorkshire Ripper enquiry there during the late seventies and early eighties. The enquiry had missed the culprit himself, Peter Sutcliffe, for many years – despite him being named during the investigation and interviewed nine times.

Jake made his way swiftly across the car park. Regardless of his injuries, he didn’t hang around; the place was well known for being infested with rats the size of small dogs. He was buzzed in and made his way up to the small front desk. He asked the officer manning reception for a phone to call the Anti-Terrorist Branch Reserve Room. The officer looked quizzically at his Def Leppard T-shirt and checked his ID before ushering him into his office.

Jake made the call back to London. ‘DI Flannagan calling. What’s happened?’ he asked, without waiting to hear who was on the other end of the line.

‘Sir – heard about your accident. Are you OK?’ asked the officer manning the phones.

‘I’m fine, fine,’ Jake lied. ‘What’s gone on?’

‘There’s been a terrorist attack. Four separate explosions – suicide bombers possibly – all at separate sites. Three Tube trains and a bus – large number of people dead and wounded.’