THE THESEUS PARADOX: The stunning breakthrough thriller based on real events, from the Scotland Yard detective turned author. (41 page)

He walked back to the café and ordered the biggest all-day breakfast they had. He’d be able to think straight once he’d eaten.

He sipped tea from a tannin-stained mug before scooping up some baked beans on his fork. His mouth and jaw ached.

It couldn’t get any worse than this, surely?

‘Hello, Jake,’ said a thin, twenty-something girl, cradling a takeaway polystyrene cup as she sat down opposite him. In a short skirt, high heels and wearing ton of make-up, she looked like she’d been partying a little too hard. She must still be dressed up from the night before, thought Jake.

‘Hello,’ said Jake politely. ‘Do I know you?’ he asked.

The girl let out a laugh and smiled at him. ‘Yes, you know me!’

Jake sat there looking at her. ‘I’ve forgotten your name,’ he said, buying thinking time.

‘It’s Joanne. We met a few weeks ago. You were very drunk. Wheler Street, you remember? You’d been out in Shoreditch drinking, I think you said. Took me back to your place.’

Jake knew Wheler Street. It was a bit of a walk. A cut through from Brick Lane onto Commercial Road. A railway arch, covered in graffiti and street art at one end, meant traffic couldn’t drive down it. The arch made a vast section of the road dark even during the daytime. It was a place prostitutes hung out looking for clients; an area well known for streetwalkers since the days of Jack the Ripper.

On joining the force, Jake had been warned about the three Ps; paperwork, prisoners and prostitutes. He’d heard the many lines his colleagues had trotted out to them over the years, such as ‘Sleep with me and I won’t arrest you’ and ‘Let me take you away from all this’. He’d used neither in his life. He’d never had any urge to go near a prostitute before.

He looked at Joanne’s teeth; they were poor for her age. That usually meant a heroin addiction. Her clothes were cheap. They looked worn and uncared for.

‘Joanne, I really don’t remember. I found you in Wheler Street though? You go there often?’ Jake asked, in a way that made it sound as though English were his second language.

‘Yeah. A bit. It’s OK there.’

‘Joanne, don’t take this the wrong way. What did we do when we got back to my place?’

Joanne laughed again. ‘We talked. Well, you talked. And then we took a lot of drugs.’

A vision flashed before Jake’s eyes momentarily; the imprint of a pair of buttocks outlined in white powder on the glass coffee table,
his
glass coffee table.

She was smiling broadly at him. She looked a little like a badly kept Claire. Is that why she’d caught his eye? Is that how they’d got talking?

‘Joanne, as lovely as you are, I’m sorry we’ve met like this. I won’t be doing anything like this again. What drugs did we get and how much did I spend?’

‘We got some brown. I told you I liked it and you insisted you wanted to try it. You
loved
it! Then you asked me to go and get you some more. The dealer wanted more money for the second lot though, so you might see a few different withdrawals on your card instead of just one,’ Joanne was smiling again.

‘I gave you my bank card and PIN number?’ Jake’s couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

‘Yeah. You got the card back though. The second lot of drugs was £1,000 instead of £200 from that dealer; so I took £1,000 out that day. Then I got some food and stuff for us.’

He looked at his bruised left arm. That’s why it hurt so much. He’d injected heroin into it.

‘Great to meet you, Joanne. I’m going to finish my food.’ Jake didn’t want to hear any more. He just wanted her gone.

She tried to milk her cash cow further. ‘I was wondering if you wanted to do it again? I’d like to. You up for it?’

Jake looked at the scrawny prostitute that he’d invited into his home, taken drugs with and then entrusted with his bank card. How could he have been so stupid? Just doing any one of those things would have seemed beyond crazy a few weeks ago.

‘I want you to leave me alone, Joanne, so that I can finish my breakfast in peace, please.’ Jake looked her dead in the eye. He wanted her to get the message that she was no longer welcome.

‘Aww, OK, Jake, I can pop over and see you later?’ She winked at him and smiled, exposing her rotten teeth.

‘No. I hope we won’t meet again. Thanks.’ Jake looked back down at his five-pound breakfast that was now getting cold.

‘I saw the photos on your wall, you know, Jake.’ There was a change in the tone of Joanne’s voice; it had an edge to it now.

Jake looked up at her. ‘What?’ he snapped back. She was referring to his commendation-ceremony photos, which hung in his hallway.

‘The police ones. Should I keep quiet about my latest client’s activities, being an officer of the law ’n’ all, Jake?’ Joanne was half-smiling at him, but her eyes had narrowed. This was the prelude to blackmail.

‘Your client? Did we have sex too?’ asked Jake.

‘Ha! So the drugs were fine, but now you’re worried about the
sex
? I don’t think you’ve even got it in you. All you did is whine on about your fucking missing girlfriend. Boo hoo! I think I’d go missing if I had a boyfriend as dull as you! I tried to have sex with you, just to shut you up. You boring prick.’

Jake got to his feet suddenly, scooping his plate up with his fingertips and depositing its contents all over Joanne. Before she’d had chance to realise what had happened, he’d grabbed her by the arm.

Jake whispered into her ear, his body blocking the view of the waitresses. ‘That breakfast all over you now will be nothing compared to what I will do to you and any other fucking piece of shit that comes near me. I suggest you stay away and keep your mouth shut. Unless you have a punter in it, that is!

‘You can finish my breakfast, Jo,’ he called over his shoulder as he walked out.

116

Friday

28 October 2005

1203 hours

Commercial Road, Whitechapel, East End of London

Jake had to escape. He had to escape from himself. In just over two weeks he had gone from gifted detective on the Anti-Terrorist Branch to an officer suspended from duty, drinking heavily, using drugs and now bringing a street prostitute back to his own home. He couldn’t believe that in his drug-addled stupor he’d been stupid enough to give her his cashpoint card and PIN, so that she could empty his bank account.

Walking back toward his flat, he felt a creeping despair. Was Claire still missing or was this all part of her master plan? He had just a couple quid left in his pocket and he was still hungry after emptying most of his breakfast over Joanne in the café. He’d had to hand back his police Amex at the suspension meeting, and because of his father’s debt trouble, Jake had never trusted himself with anything more than a debit card. Just feeding himself now was going to be a major hurdle.

He slumped onto the torn sofa. It spat feathers from the slashes as it took his weight. What had they been looking for? What did he have that they wanted? He couldn’t think. He leaned forward and picked among the sea of beer cans on the coffee table in search of some dregs; they were all empty. Instead, he found the porcelain Dusty Bin money box sitting in the middle of them. He picked it up, rolled it in his hands and looked it over again. He felt a loathing for himself like never before.

‘You set me up! Y
ou’re a fucking bitch, Claire
!’ he screamed as he hurled the empty china figurine at the wall opposite him. The impact caused it to explode into different shards of white, green and red, which scattered across the floor.

By the skirting board, he saw something glint in the sunlight, something metallic and silver.

Jake walked over to the wall. Half of Dusty Bin’s base was still intact, the bung now missing. Inside what remained he found a small key stuck with superglue. It would have been imperceptible from the outside and could only be detected now that he’d smashed the thing open. He picked it up and prised the ordinary-looking key from the broken base.

‘OK, Claire. So this is what you wanted me to find, is it? This is what they were looking for when they trashed my place?’

He grabbed his mobile and called Anne at Travannon House. After a few rings, she answered.

‘Anne? Hi, it’s Jake.’

‘Hello, Jake,’ she said curtly.

‘Has Claire called you?’ he asked anxiously.

‘No, Jake she hasn’t… I’ve had the police from London here asking questions about you both, though. Asking if I knew where she was. Asking what happened the day you arrived. They told me you’re in some sort of trouble, but didn’t say what. They told me not to talk to you. When you didn’t call me back that week, I assumed everything was fine, until I got the visit from them. That was three weeks ago, Jake! I’ve been worried sick. I’ve left you messages.’

Jake sighed.

‘I’m sorry, Anne. There’s been a lot going on. I’ve done nothing wrong. I was just trying to find her.’

‘You could have called. Her father has been on the phone asking me the same thing. He’s not heard anything either.’

‘I don’t know what’s going on, Anne. It’s very strange.’

Jake looked down at the small key in his hand.

‘Anne, you’ve known Claire since she was a child, haven’t you?’

‘Yes, I have. Why?’

‘Was she fond of that seventies and eighties game show,
3-2-1
? You know, the one with Dusty Bin in it?’

‘Not that I’m aware of, she might have been. Her little brother’s nickname was Dusty though. He was always climbing into small spaces and getting covered in it.’

Jake felt his heart jump.

‘He was called Dusty?’

‘You sound surprised?’

‘I’ve found a key belonging to Claire. I think she’s left it as some sort of clue.

‘There
is
a box of Dusty’s stuff here. It’s in the attic of the main house. Claire had the box down a few months ago. I know there’s a padlock on it. I don’t have the key though, never had it…’

That had to be it, thought Jake.

‘I’m going to come and to see you, Anne. I’m not quite sure how I’m going to get to you yet, but I will be down.’

117

Saturday

29 October 2005

0959 hours

Cranborne Lane, East Dulwich

Jake walked up the path toward the familiar Victorian facade of the house he had once shared with his wife and two girls before the split. He had phoned Stephanie and asked for her help. She was his one remaining lifeline. He had told her on the phone he was in some trouble and that he needed to talk to her face to face.

As he pressed the doorbell, he was still wondering how much he should tell her. How much did he need to tell her? Stephanie opened the door wearing her favourite pair of faded blue jeans.

‘Come in,’ she said, as she stepped to one side. ‘You look like shit.’

Jake crossed the threshold of his former home. It had changed little since he’d left. The same furniture, same carpets, same smell, same people. The only thing that was different was the man that now stood in the hallway.

Jake. Jake was different.

Stephanie closed the door and wandered off into the kitchen at the back of the house. He heard her switch the kettle on. He followed her and sat down at the large, round oak table by the patio doors, which overlooked the small rear garden. He said nothing. He was still searching for the right words, the right tone – the right way to position it.

Stephanie sat down opposite him and passed him a cup of tea. She’d remembered, without being prompted, that he took two sugars.

‘Go on then, tell me… You’ve lost your job, haven’t you?’ she asked, resigned.

‘Not yet, but I’m close. I need to sort out the trouble I’m in…’ Jake stopped himself talking. How had she known he was in trouble at work? Had the DPS been here like they had to Travannon House?

‘What makes you say it’s my job that’s the problem?’ he asked.

‘Jake, I can see you’re in a state. You look like something the cat dragged in. I know that job is the only thing you ever really cared about. You didn’t shed a single tear when you walked out of this house to go and live on your own. All you’ve ever really cared about is your job. Being the best, getting the result. That drive to win, to solve everything – it consumes you, eats you up. You try to exclude everyone and everything – you disappear into a cave. You drink or seek solace somewhere for the night. The job makes a monster of you, Jake. It makes you do weird things. You’re not the man I married. I don’t know where he’s gone…’ Stephanie tailed off, fighting back tears.

Jake said nothing. She was right. She knew exactly who he was, what he’d become.

He felt ashamed. How had he arrived here? How had his journey brought him to this point? He suddenly felt a huge surge of emotion. Tears welled up in his eyes. He put his elbows on the table and his head in his hands, covering his eyes with his palms, as if that might stop him weeping, but it didn’t. The tears flowed down his arms.

‘I’m suspended. I’m under investigation for trying to do the right thing, but it doesn’t look good. I’m a mess. I’ve been drinking a lot; I’ve been using drugs as well. I’ve fucked up… I need your help. I’ve got no cash. None at all. I need to borrow some money, and a car…’

Stephanie stared back at him for a few moments. She looked at him like she no longer recognised him and spoke through pursed lips.

‘You walked out on me, walked out on our children, walked out on our marriage without even properly explaining to me…’ Stephanie stopped herself mid-sentence to take a sip of her tea. Jake could see that she was swallowing to silence the sobs. She composed herself momentarily. She wouldn’t cry in front of him. She wouldn’t let him see her pain.

Jake tried to find the words. ‘I’m sorry. Deeply sorry. I’ve lost myself in the last few years. I’ve been an emotional coward. Instead of talking about stuff, about how I felt, I’ve hidden my feelings, hidden my emotions since Mum and Gran both died. Work was the one place where I could escape from things; it was the one place where none of those things were spoken about.’