THE THESEUS PARADOX: The stunning breakthrough thriller based on real events, from the Scotland Yard detective turned author. (42 page)

‘Like what? What things? What problems couldn’t you discuss with me?’ Stephanie looked angry, the tears gone.

‘I was scared. Scared about being a dad, about getting old, about acting responsibly, about being a middle-aged bloke with two point four kids and living in the suburbs. I was scared about dying like Mum, and not having done all the things that I wanted to do before I did. I was scared of not having achieved something amazing to leave as a legacy for you and the kids. So I ran away from it all. I hid.’

‘And since you’ve been gone, what have you actually achieved, Jake? More notches on the bedpost? Banged up a few more criminals? Cracked the most important case in the history of the Metropolitan Police? I bet you’ve not even achieved changing your bedclothes.’

‘I’ve behaved badly. I’ve hurt you. I really am sorry. I can’t change what’s happened.’ Jake wiped away the remaining tears from his face.

‘You’ve created two amazing daughters, Jake. They’re growing up without you, without you even realising. That’s the real tragedy in all of this – not that you walked out on me, on us. You walked out on the two single most amazing achievements a man can ever have in life, his children. That’s the legacy you should be thinking about, not whatever case you’re working on… Why are you telling me all this now? What do you need from me?’

‘Right now?’

‘Yes, right now, why are you here?’

‘I need £1,000 and a car.’

Stephanie thought for a moment, sighed to herself and replied, ‘I can transfer money into your account, but I want it back. My brother has an old van sitting on his drive that he’s trying to sell. He wants two or three hundred pounds for it. It’s too small for what he needed it for. Use some of the money I’m lending you to buy that off Paul.’

Jake suddenly wondered if her question ‘What do you need from me?’ meant something different to how he had interpreted it. Had she been throwing him a relationship lifeline, a second chance at their marriage?

Was he still so focused on solving this case that he hadn’t even seen that?

It was too late. Stephanie was already on her feet, walking toward the front door. She opened it and stood waiting for Jake to leave.

‘I’ll transfer the money into your account straightaway,’ she said. She looked at the floor and waited for him to leave.

118

Saturday

29 October 2005

2105 hours

Travannon House, St Austell, Cornwall

The 1990 Volkswagen Transporter van looked in terrible condition. Its blue paintwork was faded and lacklustre. Large patches of rust were eating away at it from inside and out, making the van look like it had brown spots all over it from a distance. It had no power steering, no air conditioning, no MOT and it had done 175,000 miles. But the radio worked and the diesel engine sounded as good as the day it rolled off the production line. Best of all it would be shown as ‘no current keeper’ on the Police National Computer. It had been sold at various times to different people who had failed to notify the DVLA that they were the owner. This suited Jake perfectly. If he had to walk away and leave it for any reason, no one could trace it back to him.

Paul, Stephanie’s brother, was a landscape gardener and had needed a rough and ready vehicle to take garden waste, rubbish and logs to the local dump, but it had proved too small and no match for his newer LT van – the trips to the dump had become too frequent. The old VW Transporter had sat on his drive for several months and the MOT had lapsed. He was glad to be rid of it and let Jake have it for just £175, with a £25 discount on top if Jake wouldn’t mind just ferrying the ancient two-stroke petrol mower inside it to the dump.

Jake accepted the discount gladly and didn’t even bother to insure the van. Another paper trail to be avoided at all costs. The Transporter started first time. He drove it off Paul’s driveway and straight to the tip to dispose of the mower, then began his journey south-west toward St Austell.

It was late evening by the time Jake pulled onto the gravel drive of Travannon House. Anne came out and ushered him into her annexe.

‘How are you doing, Jake?’ she asked as she touched his arm.

‘I’m just keen to find out what’s going on and where she is, Anne…’

‘There’s guests in the house, Jake. I’ve had to bring the trunk in here down from their loft; one of the lads helped me.’ Anne pointed at a robust wooden chest sat on the tiled floor in her kitchen. It had metal handles at the sides that were painted black and a clasp at the front with a padlock. It looked like it might have been an old tea chest in a previous lifetime.

Jake fished the key out from his pocket – the one that he’d found stuck inside Dusty Bin – and pushed it into the brushed metal padlock. It slid in easily and Jake felt a surge of excitement. He turned it barely a quarter of a turn clockwise and the lock opened.

‘Fuck me! This is it, Anne!’ shouted Jake, his emotions getting the better of him, before he realised he’d sworn in front of the elderly lady.

He pulled off the lock and opened the lid. The underside had Chinese markings stamped into the wood. Jake had no idea what they said. A musty fragrance emanated from within; a mix of sawdust and dried leaves. Inside, the chest was filled to the brim with photos of all different sizes, some in frames, some not. Every single one held an image of the same small boy.

‘What… what on earth are all these? Why?’ Jake said disappointedly, as he rifled through the box. He bit his tongue to stop himself swearing again, this time in frustration. This was all she’d left behind? How was this going to help him?

Anne glanced through the pictures and shook her head in regret at each one she picked up. ‘I know you don’t know…’ she began.

Jake looked at her. ‘Know what?’

119

Saturday

29 October 2005

2135 hours

Travannon House, St Austell, Cornwall

‘Dusty’s death marked a turning point in Claire’s life, Jake,’ announced Anne.

‘What do you mean?’

‘When you told me she was missing, I was worried about her. Worried she’d done something awful, something stupid. She’s suffered terribly during her life – I could understand if the pain was too much for her to go on.’

Jake was confused. What was Anne trying to tell him? ‘Go on,’ he replied.

Anne’s face crumpled in grief as she spoke. ‘The death of her brother, Dusty, was a tragedy, but her misery continued for many years afterwards. Both she and her dad went to live with her uncle. He turned out to be an evil man, wicked beyond belief. He abused her repeatedly. Then, when her mother died too, she locked Dusty’s stuff away and out of sight. I guess she felt that if Dusty didn’t exist and was locked away, then the abuse never existed and all those dreadful memories could be locked away too.’

‘Was nothing ever done? She never mentioned it to me, ever.’

‘Kate, Claire’s cousin, caught them one afternoon. Frank, her uncle, claimed it was a one-off and it was all consensual. Claire’s father blamed her for encouraging Frank in some way. He was sure it was down to some sort of mixed signals she was giving, that it was a one-off thing. It was repeated rape though. The family couldn’t bear to face up to more trauma after Dusty’s death. No one talked about it; it was just swept under the carpet. Claire was sent to boarding school. Her father and uncle fell out and they barely spoke again. She’s moved on. She hates her father and despises her uncle. He was utterly obsessed with her.’

Jake wondered if Claire had left him this information because she couldn’t bring herself to tell him in person. Maybe the pain of it all was too much to bear?

As Anne picked through the framed photos, Jake spotted a flash of vermillion card nestling down one side of the chest. He grabbed hold of a corner and pulled it out. It was a folder. It looked new and clearly didn’t fit with the other battered items the old chest contained.

Inside he found several intelligence reports on MI5-headed notepaper and a poorly photocopied planning application.

Jake skimmed through the intelligence reports:

Drugs Importation

‘…There is strong evidence to show that drugs in large quantities are being imported into the UK by certain members of the West Yorkshire Muslim community…’

‘…Purchase of the drugs abroad is done via the transfer of goods or monies through UK charities set up directly for this purpose…’

‘…Considerable funds, raised from the sale of these drugs in the UK, may be used for clandestine purposes but is beyond the scope of this investigation. The illegal drugs importation itself poses no direct threat to national security and is therefore not a matter for this agency.’

‘…Agents are using the drugs importation as a method by which to recruit informants via blackmail…’

‘…Information is not being passed to law-enforcement agencies on the drugs importation…’

‘…Agents have become directly involved in the sale/use of illegal drugs…’

Jake thought back to the moment he’d spotted Lawrence in the Gents – the telltale white substance under his nose. Was he part of all this? Had Claire uncovered his moneymaking secret?

Money Laundering

‘…Large sums of money, believed originally to be for terrorist purposes, have been found to be crime related…’

‘…Money is being used to purchase property and businesses…’

‘…A small group of individuals are exerting control over entire communities…’

‘…The local populace are excluded from other communities and are used as workers and cash cows…’

Tablighi Jamaat

‘…A rogue element has infiltrated this sect… unidentified individuals are believed to be attempting to exert control over businesses and populace…’

Jake turned his attention to the planning application. It was for a huge seventy-thousand-capacity mosque in East London. None of the names on the planning application meant anything to him.

On a separate piece of paper, he saw the name of Mohammed Biaj written next to the numbers two, zero, one and another two, followed by a question mark. Was it the code for a combination lock?

Jake saw himself standing in an amusement arcade. There was a penny-falls machine directly in front of him. He had a huge coin in his hand, but he didn’t know how to fit it into the machine. It was too big. It made no sense.

‘Can I make you a sandwich, Jake?’ asked Anne, dragging him back into reality.

‘That would be good, Anne. Thanks.’

‘It doesn’t help you much, does it, Jake?’

‘Right at this moment, Anne, no. I have absolutely no idea how this all fits in…’ Jake shrugged as he waved the documents and bits of paper in his hand at her.

‘No, I suppose not. It doesn’t help that Claire’s handwriting was always awful at the best of times…’

Jake looked back down at the notes. Anne was right – it certainly was Claire’s handwriting. Dashed off as quickly as possible. Had she written these notes just for him?

120

Monday

31 October 2005

1336 hours

Café Sorrento, Little Venice, Maida Vale, London

‘So what’s the latest on the job then, Len?’

They sat eating club sandwiches, warmed by the sunlight streaming in through the glass front of the café. Below them, colourful narrow boats bobbed gently as Regent’s Canal shook hands with the Paddington arm of the Grand Union.

‘What of the fifty-third victim? The pretend professor who was found dead at her flat? Anything on her?’ asked Jake.

‘Toxicology on “Professor” Groom-Bates came back negative. No traces of drink or drugs in her system. No radioactivity. No infection. Overall consensus is that she definitely died from a blood clot on the lungs. Only, it seems weird that the one thing she died from is the one thing it appears she actually had some knowledge of. When I dug into it, I found that she’d actually written a thesis on the cause of embolisms whilst studying for a basic certificate of health care. In any case, she was just as much a victim as the rest of those poor people. She got involved in the circumstances of that day and was affected by it. Just like all of us, I guess.’

‘Poor girl. What else is new?’

Lenny wiped the mayonnaise from the side of his mouth. ‘Well, boss, latest on the green gunge is that Professor Bowman at the forensic explosives lab was right. There was no chemical attack. Looks now as though it
was
gas gangrene from the Clostridium perfringens. Everyone I’ve spoken to says it could well have come from his dodgy belly, what with him shitting his trousers and chucking them into the rucksack. But the source hasn’t conclusively been found.’

Jake nodded. ‘So the dirty bomb could just have been, what? A dirty mistake?’

‘Potentially. The hospital has changed the treatment plan for the patient who was allergic to the initial prescribed regime and they’re recovering well. The new antibiotic combination they’ve put them on and the hyperbaric oxygen chamber have put them back on track, which is fantastic news.’

‘What happened with the stuff about the lump on the car and the newspapers? Did we ever get to the bottom of it?’

‘Have you not seen the memo?’ asked Lenny, looking shocked.

‘I’m suspended, Lenny. Anyway, you know I never read my bloody emails, even when I was in the office!’

Lenny looked serious now. ‘Denswood sent round a note, hard copy, urgent. They reckon former and retired police officers have been paid by the press to hack into voicemails. Nothing’s been proven at this stage. It’s just a rumour, but we’ve been advised not to leave any more messages for anyone via phone.’

‘Jesus, I had a load of voicemails go missing!’

‘Well, that may well have been the reason. Could be that someone was paid to hack into them.’

‘Blimey, Len. There was me thinking Wasim’s wife was a top AQ operative and she’d used her years of counter-surveillance training to find the bloody lump!’