THE THESEUS PARADOX: The stunning breakthrough thriller based on real events, from the Scotland Yard detective turned author. (43 page)

‘Nope, may have been the journos all along. They wanted answers. They need to print something and there’s been no developments in the case. Maybe they’ve had to try some unusual methods to fill column inches?’ replied Lenny.

‘Any update on Shahid?’ asked Jake.

‘The boss is still adamant that we’re going to use him as a witness and we’re not going to pursue any of the criminal allegations about wasting police time, perverting the course of justice or withholding information.’

Jake looked incredulously at Lenny. ‘I just don’t get it. What’s all that about?’

‘Denswood says that if we prosecute him, we can’t use anything that he says as evidence in the case, and we need what he says as a narrative to prove the timeline of events.’

‘But he’s a liar! So we’re presenting lies as evidence now?’

‘They’re convinced that if we put his case in front of the CPS, they won’t run with it. I have my own misgivings about bloody Shahid. He’s a big fish in a small pool up there – an important source of employment. His cousin is good friends with the local MP and a mate of his is on the local Police Consultative Group. We have to do what we’re told by the boss,’ said Lenny ruefully.

Jake finished up the last of his sandwich and moved his plate away. ‘You wanna see something strange, Len?’ he asked, tilting his head to one side.

Lenny’s eyes lit up. To him, Jake’s definition of ‘strange’ was always worth a look.

Jake pulled the set of plans out of his inside jacket pocket and laid them down on the table in front of Lenny’s plate.

‘What’s this?’ asked Lenny.

‘It’s a planning application.’

‘For what?’

‘For a mosque in East London. They’re proposing a building that’ll be large enough to house seventy-thousand worshippers. Plus accommodation, shops, businesses. A whole, self-contained enclave on a disused, inner-city, brownfield site.’

‘And? What’s this got to do with anything?’ asked Lenny.

‘I’ve done some work on it. You remember that demonstration where Kenny Savage witnessed that fracas with Shahid?’

‘Yeah,’ replied Lenny.

‘Well, we never really looked at the significance of what they were protesting about, did we? The reason Kenny was there that day was because he was in opposition to the building of this mosque in East London. This place is going to be the biggest mosque in Europe. It’s going to be the new headquarters for Tablighi Jamaat. Bigger than St Paul’s cathedral!’

‘Who the fuck are Tabliggi Jam-whatsits?’

‘They’re a bit like travelling preachers. Someone described them to me as the Jehovah’s Witnesses of Islam. They’re grassroots missionaries, but hard line, neo-fundamentalist. They go around spreading their version of the Quran to different mosques across the country. Some of them preach that Muslims shouldn’t mix with non-Muslims. They’re not about converting Christians or other religions to Islam. It’s like they don’t really recognise any other religions, they only preach to other Muslims to try and convert them to their very strict way of thinking. They say they’re apolitical and non-violent, but very little is known about them. They don’t seem to have any formal structure that’s written down anywhere. It’s all word of mouth and fairy tales. They want strict adherence to a very traditional, old-school form of Sharia law and believe in Sharia-controlled zones around mosques. They are well known for helping to get the kids off drugs…’

‘The sort of thing that Wasim used to do?’ interjected Lenny.

‘Exactly that. They get hold of the addicts and make them go cold turkey to get them clean and off the drugs. The wider Islamic community believe they’re doing good work. You remember in the nineties, when Wasim was doing it as part of a gang…’

‘Yeah, the elders didn’t know what to do about the kids that were addicted to drugs. It was a real problem.’

‘That’s right. So in agreement with their frantic relatives, Wasim’s twenty-strong crew would sweep up the addicts and hold them in a flat until their drug cravings had disappeared. I reckon he was already part of Tablighi Jamaat way back then, Lenny.’

‘Really? OK. So what’s so special about that then?’ asked Lenny. ‘That sounds like good work to me.’

‘Well… that is good work. But what if someone were to infiltrate that group and deliberately prey on those unfortunates who are involved in drugs and crime? What if someone used it as a cover for picking the most vulnerable kids and radicalising them? If they’re holding them to make them go cold turkey, they could do anything they wanted with them. The brain does weird things when it’s coming down off drugs. What if they’re using that time period to indoctrinate them? They could use the drug-cleansing process to forcibly radicalise these kids, make them do whatever they wanted?’

‘What, like, “I’ve found God and thank you for helping me off the drugs, Lord”?’ asked Lenny.

‘Yes, that sort of thing. But we’re talking hard-line extremism here, Len.’

‘So, I still don’t see what the connection is here between this planning application and the bombers.’

‘I don’t know either yet, Lenny, but I wonder if it’s all connected through this Tablighi Jamaat movement somehow. That mosque that Wasim used to visit up in West Yorkshire was their European HQ, you know.’

‘And what do they think about it?’ asked Lenny.

‘Well they say it’s nothing to do with them. Same as the international headquarters in India. No one seems to have sanctioned this new mosque in East London or know anything about it. But someone clearly wants to create an even larger base here in London. A hard line Islamic enclave which could become Britain’s first Sharia-controlled zone.

‘I’m curious, Lenny, is someone using drugs to control the kids? Are they getting them hooked, then bringing them down and feeding them all this neo-fundamentalist cult bullshit? It could be a deliberate ploy, a way of messing with the brain wiring of these kids. Can you see if Shahid is involved in drugs in some way?’

121

Wednesday

2 November 2005

1000 hours

The Trafalgar, King’s Road, Chelsea

The pub was deserted. Jake had hoped it would be. Despite the unseasonably good weather, early on a Wednesday morning on the King’s Road wasn’t exactly peak pub hours. Jake had arrived early to make sure he’d see Zarshad. The poor bloke didn’t know he wasn’t going to get paid yet, but the opportunity of a free drink would entice him out of bed, at least, thought Jake.

Jake ordered a small Diet Coke and sat down on a black Chesterfield sofa by the window. The smell of day-old smoke seemed to ooze from every surface in the pub, making the air feel stale. There was a song playing in the background. Jake had heard it endlessly on the radio. Some Canadian band was singing about a photograph, but he couldn’t make out the lyrics at this volume.

Zarshad swaggered in wearing torn jeans, flip-flops and a green T-shirt with the slogan ‘In war, truth is the first casualty’ emblazoned across the chest in dark blue lettering.

‘You’re drinking shorts already? It’s a bit early, ain’t it?’ Zarshad said, eying Jake’s small glass. He raised his eyebrows in mock surprise.

‘It’s just Coke. Grab yourself one and sit down, mate,’ said Jake, motioning to the chair opposite him.

‘Fuck that…’ said Zarshad, as he walked toward the bar.

A few minutes later he returned with two pints of lager. He made himself comfortable in a brown wing-back chair opposite Jake.

‘Coke’s no good for men like us!’ he said, as he pushed one of the pints toward Jake.

‘I’m off the drink, Zarshad. I’ve indulged in one too many recently. I’m here because you mentioned your father was part of something. That’s what I want to talk to you about.’

‘My father? What the fuck? What’s he been up to?’

‘Tablighi Jamaat.’

‘Tablighi Jamaat? You asked me to the pub to talk about TJ? Why?’ asked Zarshad with a puzzled look on his face.

‘You said that your father was a member of Tablighi Jamaat.’

‘Yeah, he is. So what?’

‘I wanted some background information on them, some work I’m involved in. It’s just a chat, I can’t pay you.’ Jake grimaced involuntarily as he said it, remembering his dire financial situation.

‘That don’t sound good, Jake. I could do with some wonga at the moment.’

‘Just drinks, Zarshad. That’s all I can afford at the moment, mate. But let’s just say I owe you some real work.’

‘It’s fine – I hate the TJ bastards anyway. Happy to help.’ Zarshad gulped his pint quickly, determined now to get a few in as they spoke.

There was an awkward pause. Jake said nothing. His eyes had wandered to the lager in front of him on the table. His mouth began to water as he thought about drinking it.

‘So what do you want to know, Jake? Jake?’

Jake looked up from his pint and snapped back to attention. ‘Err… Anything… everything? Give me the full rundown.’

‘Well, they’re sort of like a missionary group, a sect. Unless you’re Muslim you’re unlikely ever to have heard of them. I’m really surprised to hear you mention their name, to be honest.

‘The TJs love to talk about spiritual jihad, the inner fight between good and evil. Kind of like that fight you’re having with yourself over whether you should drink that pint or not, Jake.’ Zarshad broke into a smile and laughed.

Jake thought about his own inner turmoil. Zarshad was right. He was wondering whether he should really abstain from the lager. The past few weeks on the drugs and booze hadn’t done him any favours. But something else was nagging him, something about the term ‘spiritual jihad’. He’d heard it before. He waited for the penny to drop into the right machine in his head.

Samir Shafiq, the burka bomber, had said something similar to him when he’d been interviewed at Paddington Green police station. Perhaps Samir was also a TJ?

122

Wednesday

2 November 2005

1100 hours

The Trafalgar, King’s Road, Chelsea

Jake smiled, picked up the pint of lager he’d been staring at and sipped it.

It was his first drink in nearly a week. He was just relieved that the chemical abuse he’d put himself through hadn’t stopped the neurons firing. He swallowed a cold, fizzy mouthful. Sod the guilt, he thought. It tasted good.

‘That’s the Jake I know. Well done, mate!’ Zarshad was laughing.

Jake took another mouthful. It was time to pick Zarshad’s brain.

‘I’ve done some basic research. I know the stuff anyone can find out, that they started in the 1920s in India. The aim was and still is to make better Muslims out of existing believers by going back to basics; they’re an international group with millions of followers worldwide… I don’t need to know that stuff. I’m looking for a more intimate understanding. What are they really about?’

‘Well a lot of people believe it’s character building. Many of us sort of inherit it from our dads. He once did it and so you have to do it. It used to be that some parents saw it as a rite of passage. You kaafir would say it’s akin to doing something like VSO or an apprenticeship. Maybe like joining the Territorial Army or doing a gap year between school and uni.’

‘VSO? What do you mean?’ asked Jake.

‘Voluntary Service Overseas. In the seventies and eighties you might serve your time in the TJs, do a load of good work, build a bit of character and then go back to normal life. But it’s changed. It’s changing.’

‘How so?’ asked Jake.

‘A lot of Islam has traditionally been about academics and scholars. But to be a leader or a member of the TJ these days, you don’t have to theorise on deep religious philosophy. You just need to know the right people, do the things that they want you to do, show the right commitment.

‘It’s not all bad, but it does sometimes attract the misfits who feel left out and alienated by mainstream Islam.’

‘Why does it attract them?’ asked Jake.

‘Well, a lot of the stuff you’ll find at a normal mosque is written in the language of our grandparents. It’s heavy going. Kids today, they’re not interested. They don’t understand it. Their first language is more likely to be English. Some of the TJs know that. They make stuff simple. It’s all word of mouth, anecdotes and urban myths.’

Zarshad continued, ‘The Dawah missions to convert other Muslims, the pitching up at mosques, the door-to-door preaching and stuff – it’s all about brotherhood and widening the net. It’s not about the highest ethical standards.’

For the second time that morning, Jake had a creeping sense of déjà vu. ‘Dawah’… Where had he heard that word before? Hadn’t Shahid mentioned something? What was it? Something about important voluntary work in Bristol? Going door-knocking with his brother and their travelling group of preachers?

Zarshad was in full flow now. ‘Drugs, alcohol and all that, mainstream Islam won’t entertain it. The TJs are odd. I know people who’ve walked out of a nightclub and the same day they’ve walked into the bosom of the TJs just to make themselves feel better about their lives, and they are welcomed with open arms. It takes the piss out of Islam really. A lot of them join because it’s more like a gang, with mates who do similar stuff. Some only do it because they’ve been feeling guilty about ignoring the faith, and feel they need to make an effort.’

‘None of that seems so bad. They’re making Islam more accessible?’ interrupted Jake.

‘Well, they are – but none of it is regulated properly. Anyone can get in, anyone can get to the top and anyone can preach whatever their version of the six principles it is they fancy… and that’s where TJ and I have fallen out. I know some people are just there because it gives them power and influence over others.

‘Some groups have become about controlling people, about cutting you off from the rest of your friends and family, simply isolating TJ followers from others, even from other Muslims! Sometimes they turn up uninvited at mosques and begin preaching their different views of Islam to those inside. They camp there, sleep there. I’ve heard tales that in some places they take over the mosque forever. They travel in groups for three, ten and forty days at a time, preaching to whoever will listen. They don’t want contact with non-Muslims – it’s all about converting existing believers. It’s a bit like a cult, I suppose.’