THE THESEUS PARADOX: The stunning breakthrough thriller based on real events, from the Scotland Yard detective turned author. (36 page)

Sandra wound through the footage to 0700 hours on Monday morning. She played it forward at three times the normal speed. Jake watched as several cars drove up the road; the camera angle was nigh on perfect.

‘There!’ Jake made Sandra jump as he shouted in excitement on seeing the white Transit van fill the screen. The clock time was 0716 hours. Three men sat in the front of the van, all wearing what appeared to be overalls.

Sandra rewound the images, frame by frame, using a special dial on her controller. Moving images were good except when you needed to read registration numbers, which often blurred as you froze the frame.

‘May I?’ asked Jake, indicating the chair where Sandra was sitting.

Sandra got up and allowed Jake to sit in the padded, high-backed chair. It was warm from her well-rounded bottom.

Jake moved the dial left and right to toggle backward and forward. You could read some of the registration on one or two frames and then the rest on the third.

‘Yes… We’ve got it, Sandra,’ Jake said through gritted teeth.

There was a pen and paper in front of him. He grabbed it and wrote down the registration number. Jake stood up and shook Sandra’s hand vigorously.

As he left, Sandra shouted after him, ‘Sorry, err… Where did you say you wanted a copy of the CCTV sent for evidence purposes? We keep it for thirty days.’

Jake turned reluctantly, remembering his role. ‘Oh, yes… thank you. I’ll be in touch about getting a copy. I’ll let you know.’

‘Glad I could help you,’ said Sandra, beaming.

Stood on the pavement outside the bank, he called the Reserve Room. He asked the operator to run a PNC check on the registration of the white Transit van.

Jake never took the Police National Computer as gospel. Sometimes it could be a liability. The force’s IT systems were limited. They took the DVLA database and added it onto the PNC. But the DVLA database changed by the second. It was a live database, whereas the PNC was only updated every few days. It was always playing catchup. Jake knew, unlike some, that even at its very best, the PNC was only moderately useful in an investigation.

‘Sir, no reports, not lost or stolen, on a white Transit van registered to ABC Van Hire at 44 Mount View, Ilford, Essex. Anything else you need, sir?’ asked the operator.

‘No, that’s great, thanks,’ replied Jake.

Jake got in the car and looked up the address in his map book. He could be there fairly quickly on blue lights from central London. This was an emergency, he reasoned.

As he wove through the heavy traffic with the magnetic blue light on the car roof and the two-tone sirens blaring, Jake played out the different scenarios that might greet him at the car-hire place in Ilford.

Always be prepared, he thought.

101

Thursday

6 October 2005

1802 hours

ABC Van Hire, Ilford, Essex

The journey had taken longer than he had expected. There had been no room to get through the traffic. It was edging toward dusk when Jake arrived at Mount View and the vehicle-rental place was closed.

ABC Van Hire was in a small industrial unit; an office with a large enclosed storage area to its right. He pulled up outside the address. The lights were off inside. He’d thought that might be the case. There was only one way to get the owner to an address after hours. He couldn’t wait until the morning.

Jake looked up and down the street. There was no CCTV anywhere to be seen and he could see no one inside the premises.

He took out his baton and broke the window in the door with one quick and purposeful swing. The burglar alarm went off immediately.

Jake walked back to his car and called the Yard again. The same operator he’d spoken to earlier answered his call.

‘Yes, sir, how can I help?’ The alarm was ringing loudly in Jake’s ears. The operator could hear it in the background. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Fine. I’m at that hire place. Just arrived here. It’s an insecure premises. Must have had a break-in. Can you create a CAD and send it to the local station? Just explain that I’ve attended and found the window broken,’ Jake continued. ‘I need the keyholder here immediately please,’ he told the operator.

He waited in his car for about an hour until a grey Mercedes pulled up behind him and a very dark-skinned, Sri Lankan-looking man in a suit got out. The door to Jake’s car was open and his magnetic blue light was still on top of the car. The man came straight over to him.

‘Hello, I’m Rajid Patel. ABC Hire is my business. Did you find it like this?’ asked the man, gesturing to the shattered glass in the door.

‘Yes. Actually, I’d come here on an unrelated enquiry and found the window on the door broken. I think my lights and sirens must have scared the burglars off. It’s your lucky day, mate,’ replied Jake.

‘Thank you, it’s very kind of you,’ replied Mr Patel.

‘I’m Detective Inspector Jake Flannagan. I’m from the Anti-Terrorist Branch.’ Jake offered his hand to the man. ‘I’m looking into a missing-persons case. Needed to look at your files on one of your hire vans.’

Jake felt a slight pang of guilt about what he’d done. Mr Patel seemed like a decent, hard-working guy. He needed this information though, and certain ways and means served a purpose.

Rajid Patel unlocked the door to reception and silenced his alarm with the code. The reception area was small, but there was a large garage attached to the side.

‘I should probably go and have a look around to make sure there’s no one here, Mr Patel.’

Jake wanted to have a poke around for the white Transit van. He would’ve needed a warrant from a court to do that normally, but not for an insecure premises or when ‘lawfully’ accompanied by the owner, however.

‘Good idea,’ replied Mr Patel, waving Jake toward the garage area.

Jake glanced up and down the rows of vehicles and located the van by its registration. This was good news. He looked through the back windows of the vehicle. No red bag. No obvious signs of blood. He walked back through to the reception area where Mr Patel was waiting.

‘No one out the back there – everything looks fine. The van I’m interested in is parked in the garage. I’m going to need to seize it from you, Mr Patel, and take it away for forensic testing.’

It was a statement; he was telling him, not asking.

‘I also need to see the paperwork for the person who last hired the van, please.’ Jake was feeling reassured that he had made the right decision to break the window. This would have taken another twenty-four hours had he waited until the morning.

He gave the registration of the van to Mr Patel who went looking for the paperwork in a back office. Things were going to be tricky with the Reserve Room from here on in. Jake knew he hadn’t followed the right procedures; he’d need to wing it. He called them up to request that the van be taken away for testing and was immediately asked for reference numbers that related to the missing-persons report – a report which did not exist. Fortunately the operator accepted the line that Jake didn’t have the documents to hand and complied with the request to simply use his name instead.

The van held a mountain of potential forensic evidence and clues as to what had taken place. Testing it might show up who the men were eventually. Their DNA and fingerprints would hopefully be all over the vehicle. Perhaps a stray hair from the driver’s seat, cigarette butts in the ashtray, fingerprints on the mirrors. None of the men had appeared to be wearing gloves in the CCTV footage.

Most importantly, Jake wanted to know if there were traces of Claire in the back of the van. Was she dead or bleeding when they put her in the bag? Had she been struck and injured or even killed in the flat? Or was she still alive?

The forensics would take time though, a few days, a week, some of it maybe months – it certainly wouldn’t be quick.

It was the hire record that Jake wanted access to tonight. That’s why he had wanted the keyholder, Mr Patel, here, and why he couldn’t wait until the morning.

Mr Patel returned with the file.

‘Thank you, Mr Patel,’ said Jake. ‘Please put the file down. Don’t touch the paper inside.’

Mr Patel placed the file slowly down onto the desk and looked at it like it might be contaminated with Ricin.

‘It’s OK, Mr Patel. The documents inside will most likely have fingerprints on them. I just don’t want your fingerprints over the top of theirs.’

Jake put on the customary two pairs of surgical gloves as always, then picked up the file and thumbed through it.

The van had been hired under the name of Abdul Mahmood, a 22-year-old male from Ilford. There was a photocopy of a UK driving licence and a phone number at the base of the form. Jake copied the address and phone number onto a spare sheet of paper.

He placed the original paperwork into an exhibit bag and sealed it, just as two uniformed police officers arrived from the local station to escort the van to the forensic examination centre. He thanked Mr Patel and left. He had work to do. He had another lead; a name and an address.

Jake worried very little about the consequences of not doing things the right way, but he knew he was on very shaky ground here. He was supposed to be in Cornwall with Claire on leave. Instead, here he was in London, single-handedly investigating her disappearance and not a soul knew what he was really up to. Yet if he went through the normal procedures, he’d lose days, a week even. Time neither Claire nor he had to spare.

The bosses would pull Jake off the job straight away because of his personal involvement with the subject of the investigation. ‘Not professional,’ they’d say, and Claire would be dead by the time they’d finished writing the missing-persons report. Yes he was out on a limb, like he always was. But once he’d found her, they’d understand and pat him on the back.

102

Thursday

6 October 2005

1915 hours

Warrington Road, Ilford, Essex

The drive to the address on the hire record took less than ten minutes. Normally Jake would have done some research before turning up somewhere, got an idea about the people who lived at the address, had some sort of lead on what he might expect there. Usually he’d run the names through the intelligence databases first, through the PNC and past the Security Service. There was no time for that today.

Warrington Road, the street listed on the van-hire paperwork, was typical of the area: Victorian, terraced and turn-of-the-century. The beautiful period windows had all been ripped out to be replaced with white plastic UPVC and porches. But most importantly to Jake, the small front gardens were poorly concreted over in order to house lots of privately imported Japanese cars. In Jake’s world, this was a hugely important nugget of intelligence. A large expat-Pakistani community in Japan made their living buying second-hand cars over there, exporting them via family networks to Dubai and then, in the main, onto extended UK family and friends as grey imports.

Jake parked outside number forty-two and walked up to the UPVC porch. He could see a shoe rack just inside the door that held one pair of men’s shoes and several pairs of unused slippers, belonging to owners who were not present.

Jake might not have done any prior research, but there were some things he didn’t need profiling databases to tell him. The neighbourhood was predominantly Islamic.

The porch was not locked. Jake stepped inside and banged on the inner wooden door. It was answered by a Pakistani man in his mid-sixties, who wore a white shirt and black synthetic-looking cardigan.

Jake produced his warrant card. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Jake Flannagan, Metropolitan Police. I want to talk about Abdul Mahmood…’ he began.

The man showed no flicker of expression, but immediately attempted to close the door. Jake was wise to this trick. He’d had it done to him countless times before. He’d already slyly wedged his foot in-between the door and the frame without the resident noticing. The door hit his foot. The man pulled it open and slammed it back again, more aggressively this time. ‘Get out!’ he shouted at Jake.

Jake pushed the door hard with his hand, knocking the man backwards. He stepped into the hallway, his shoes still on. ‘I’m looking for Abdul Mahmood. Where is he?’

There was no response; the man looked confused.

‘Your son is Abdul Mahmood? Yes?’

‘He was… my son. He is dead…’

‘When?’

‘Last year, in Pakistan.’

‘How?’

‘Abdul died in an explosion. Him and his friend – December 2004. I’ve told the Security Service. I told them we are not interested in their money. Then they threaten us with the police…’

‘The Security Service have been here? Why?’

‘They tried to recruit his brothers as informants plenty of times. She said they would send the police if we didn’t do as they wanted. You don’t scare me…’

‘December 2004…’ Jake stopped mid-sentence; he suddenly realised that the date was significant. Wasim was in Pakistan at that time too.

The old man continued, ‘Those are Muslim lands he was trying to protect. I am proud he is dead. His brothers, hounded by the Security Service, are now doing jihad too.’

Jake was frozen. He needed time to think. What was going on here? Who hired the van if it wasn’t Abdul Mahmood? Someone using his licence?

‘Arrest me or get out of my house!’ the old man shouted, scrambling to his feet.

Jake turned around and walked out without saying anything else. The old man slammed the door behind him.

Jake got into the car. He sat there, his brain buzzing. The boy was dead. And so, it seemed, was that line of enquiry; Abdul Mahmood’s driving licence was being used by someone else. Another extremist? It was common practice when one went off to fight with the view of not returning that others would use the identity and documents for fraud and scams. It was exactly what Wasim had discussed in Crawley with the Crevice crew. The question now was who’d used it?