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  The commissioner was looking agitated. He had been expecting the Home Secretary, with whom he very much wanted to talk. But at the last moment he had been advised that his number two would be coming. He had been standing in the cold February air, waiting for over thirty minutes, whilst the minister’s PR team got the location ready for the press and the arrival of the minister. Their attention to detail when it came to dealing with TV shoots was legendary.

  As the minister turned the corner, the commissioner walked across to the agreed rendezvous point close to the burnt-out car and the forlorn police helmet. The senior political reporters were nearby, ready to ask their questions. The minister, dressed in shirt sleeves and a Metropolitan police flak jacket, shook the commissioner’s hand and turned towards the TV cameras.

  ‘You see before you the latest carnage wrought on our society by fundamentalists who seek to challenge our freedoms. I can assure you that the appalling loss of life here will spur us on in our quest to bring to justice all those who assisted the suicide bomber, Imaad Wafeeq, in this heinous act. As I speak I can reveal that we are already making good progress in our investigations. We have in custody at Paddington Green police station a man, who we believe to be the financier of the terrorist cell responsible for this outrage.’

  The minister turned to the commissioner, who unlike him had not had the opportunity for a makeover before facing the cameras. ‘I understand that the investigations are progressing well.’

  The commissioner paused before making his reply. He had his concerns. The modus operandi of the attack troubled him. The bomber was not a suicide bomber and had not intended to be a victim of the bombing. It looked as if the timer had set off the bomb sooner than expected. Then there was the rucksack of explosives. It had produced far more damage than would have been expected from home-made C4 explosives, the telltale trademark of bomb attacks orchestrated by the ITS – Islamic Terror Syndicate – to which MI5 seemed convinced Rafi belonged. And how the terrorist had managed to get into the garage unchallenged worried him. He had personally reviewed the security of all his police stations only weeks earlier. The garage should not have been unguarded. At least he had been able to secure a copy of the CCTV footage showing the suspect’s meeting with the bomber.

  ‘We have a number of ongoing enquiries, which look promising,’ replied the commissioner.

  ‘Excellent. Please let me know if you require any additional resources. I shall be available 24/7. My Government has every confidence in your ability to track down and bring to justice these barbaric criminals.’

  Had the cameras not been trained on the minister, they would have spotted a fleeting frown on the commissioner’s face. He had asked to interview the suspect, but had been thwarted. ‘It is a matter for MI5, given the gravity of the situation,’ the commissioner had been told by his political masters. He had lost three of his police officers and had several more on the critical list. He did not like being out of the loop and had gone to the top. A meeting was being scheduled for Monday with his longstanding friend, the head of MI5. He wished it could have been sooner. The commissioner stood there while the minister took questions from the press, anxious to get on with his work.

  Suddenly a signal was given and the interview was over. The press officer spoke to the reporters. ‘The minister will now be visiting the injured at the Royal London Hospital, in Whitechapel Road, and will be available for further questions there. Those of you with red press passes have been allocated seats in the hospital’s press room.’

  The commissioner watched as the flak jacket was tossed to an aide. ‘Nice touch, that helmet,’ said the minister. ‘What did you use for the puddle?’

  ‘Coca Cola,’ came the aide’s reply.

  The minister smiled and strode off towards his chauffeur-driven car without so much as a goodbye to the commissioner, who turned and headed back to work.

  Back in his cell, Rafi sat on the bed trying to sort out what was going on. His thoughts went back to the previous Thursday. The early morning meeting had been an upbeat affair. His boss, Jameel, announced that he’d arranged an impromptu lunch to mark the upturn in the stock market.

  During the morning Rafi had tried ringing Callum a couple of times, but his mobile was still on voicemail.

  Just before lunch Jameel walked over to Rafi’s desk. ‘I think we should be prepared for some serious celebrations,’ he said. ‘I need to go across to The Bishop of Norwich, the restaurant, to line up a few things. Could you do me a favour and drop by the cashpoint and draw out, say, £500 in case I don’t have enough cash for the bar bills and tips?’

  ‘Fine,’ replied Rafi, thinking nothing of it. There was a row of cashpoints between the office and the restaurant, in Moorgate. By the sounds of things, it was definitely going to be a session and a half for his drinking colleagues. Lunch was booked to start at 12.30 p.m. The whole fund management team was invited.

  The restaurant welcomed the unexpected request for lunch for twenty-eight and arranged an area for just Prima Terra. No expense was spared; the food was first-class and, judging by his colleagues’ remarks, the champagne and wine were excellent. Before, during and after lunch the drinks flowed freely. Rafi’s colleagues became increasingly well lubricated and were on great form. Rafi, for his part, did not drink.

  Ben, a burly East End lad who looked as if he’d missed the opportunity of being a second row forward, was revving up for a long session. He and a group of his colleagues decided that it was the perfect night to visit a nightclub. They’d recently returned from a stag night in Warsaw and had coined a new expression: zloty for totty. This was their war cry, which the dealer next to Rafi was chanting. It was going to be a very long and lively celebration. Ben and his friends decided that they’d have a few more drinks and move on to a cocktail bar in the West End, before some visual entertainment.

  Rafi looked at his watch; it was approaching six o’clock. Half an hour earlier, Jameel had given his apologies and left to catch his flight to Paris. Rafi still hadn’t spoken to Callum. He rang his mobile without success, then decided to ring his office and leave a voicemail message, but to his surprise his call was diverted. A kindly-sounding woman from Landin Young’s HR team answered the phone. ‘Mr Khan, I’m sorry,’ she said and then, after a short pause, added, ‘Callum Burns has been killed in a car accident. His Mercedes hit black ice, crashed and caught fire in Luxembourg on his way to Belgium. Can I get one of his colleagues to phone you tomorrow morning?’

  Rafi could not reply straight away. He was nearly sick on the spot. Disbelief was his immediate reaction. Then the shock struck home and tiredness swept through him. His hands shook. ‘Thank you, that would be helpful,’ he said weakly and hung up.

  He tried to put on a brave face. He wanted to leave and go home there and then. But he did not want to draw attention to his premature departure. He bought a couple of bottles of Champagne for his colleagues and then quietly slipped outside and headed for home.

  Sitting on his hard cell bed, his thoughts remained on what had happened to Callum and whether his death might be linked to the bombing. Too many things just didn’t make sense: why was Callum driving a Mercedes and not a Porsche? Why had he been driving straight to Amsterdam and not via Germany? What had Callum gleaned in Luxembourg? How many people were involved? Was he in the frame too? What should he do? Or could it all just be a coincidence? Rafi’s thoughts went round in circles. Eventually he came to the realisation that he didn’t have enough information to understand what was going on.

  His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the cell door swinging open. The ugly guard stood a few feet away, scowling.

  Moments later Rafi was back in the austere interview room, facing his two interrogators.

  Andy started the ball rolling. ‘We are concerned that there will be further bombings. We need to know how to stop further carnage and bloodshed. Our patience only goes so far. If you don’t cooperate, we have a good mind to lend you to the Yanks.’

 
‘I’m not sure that I’ve any information that will help you,’ replied Rafi.

  Andy erupted like a Roman candle. ‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re playing at? You drag things out, waste our time and refuse to talk. Lives are at stake!’

  The grilling went on for what seemed like ages. Rafi answered the very few questions he could.

  The interrogators knew they were getting nowhere and their behaviour had become even more intimidating. Rafi had repeatedly been in and out of the interview room like a yo-yo, but he was never allowed to settle in his cell. If he tried to sleep he was hauled back in front of his two interrogators. He had lost sense of time – he guessed he had been interrogated for all Saturday and it was now probably Sunday. He was mentally drained and his recently acquired bruises ached like hell, as did his eyes. His head throbbed from the lack of sleep and the relentless stress. It then dawned on him that he would not be able to withstand the verbal assault for much longer.

  ‘You’re close to your sister, aren’t you?’ asked Mike.

  ‘What?’

  ‘We think that she can help us. We’ve been looking into her research work at the University of Birmingham. She is, we’re informed, very bright. We think that she could be involved,’ said Mike.

  ‘How about we pull her in?’ said Andy

  Rafi felt the fury building up inside him. His little sister was the one person in the world he would protect with everything he possessed, even with his life. He felt shocked and angry.

  ‘My sister is 100% innocent. She has nothing to do with this,’ he pleaded.

  ‘As we are not getting very far here, I think it’s time for a two-pronged attack,’ said Mike. ‘We send him for a stint of solitary at Belmarsh. Meanwhile we can put pressure on his sister.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Andy. ‘She is bound to crack like an egg under pressure.’

  Rafi was visibly shaking. ‘I’m not telling porkies. Can’t you bloody well see I’ve been set up? Stuff you! I can’t frigging well help – I know sod all about the bomber.’

  Mike lent forward. ‘Don’t worry; your sister will tell us what we need to know!’

  Rafi weakly tried to swing a punch at Mike who, despite being inches away, caught his fist and smiled.

  ‘Last chance to come clean or Saara gets the full treatment!’ said Andy.

  Rafi said nothing.

  ‘Bog off back to your cell and think of the fun we’ll have with your sister.’ Mike stood up to emphasise his height over him. ‘You’ll talk, you know you will.’

  Back in his cell, Rafi thought long and hard. Time had run out; the case against him viewed from the interrogators’ standpoint was overwhelming. They didn’t give a shit about what he and Callum had found on the four listed companies. They’d played their trump card: his sister. He sat, shoulders hunched. The knowledge that he’d involved her in this frightening world scared him.

  His thoughts drifted back to happier times, living at home with her and their parents. He treasured the time he had spent with her. She was eighteen months younger than him, but at times she had treated him like a younger brother. He was an able student; in contrast Saara was exceptionally bright. He watched with admiration as she excelled in everything academic: she had been top at school, achieved the highest mark in her undergraduate year and her PhD dissertation had been deemed exceptional by her professor.

  Saara’s successes had spurred him on. With a BSc in Business Studies and Accounting and a couple of years’ experience working in the treasury department of a bank under his belt, he’d set his sights on working in the equities markets. He completed a full-time MBA and found a good corporate finance job. Eighteen months later his and Saara’s happy lives had been shattered by their parents’ untimely death in a car crash.

  The money from his parents’ estate and his savings had enabled him to muster the deposit needed to purchase his flat. He’d worked on an old adage: ‘There are three important things to consider when purchasing property, namely: location, location, location.’ So, he’d spent the summer evenings four years ago visiting smart residential areas in London. He’d added a fourth element: access to open space. He’d zeroed in on Hampstead and purchased a two-bedroom flat in the attic space of a large red-brick house in Well Walk, close to the Heath and an eight-minute walk from the tube station. The entrance to the flat was off a narrow path – Well Passage.

  Rafi put his hands over his eyes and forced his brain to think. They were convinced that he knew the bomber. Why the hell wouldn’t they listen to him? It was as if his bloody interrogators weren’t interested in the potential wrongdoing Callum and he had uncovered. The more he thought about it the more certain he became that there had to be a connection between his finding out about the dubious shareholdings in the four companies and his being set up. He had to find a way to get them to look at things from his perspective. But how?

  Rafi turned his thoughts back to the one piece of evidence he had that they might want: the USB memory stick Callum had given him.

  The devastating news of Callum’s death had shaken him to the core. Once back home after the office party on Thursday evening, he had slumped in an armchair and done nothing for several hours. It had slowly dawned on him that he was wasting valuable time. He had to plan for the worst – and assume someone had killed Callum. And it might not be long before the Financial Services Authority and the fraud squad spotted what Prima Terra were up to. Callum’s USB stick might just be his insurance policy or even a valuable bargaining chip if he was confronted by the authorities.

  He needed to hide the USB stick away from prying eyes. His mind was in disarray. He recalled wondering whether he was being paranoid – no; after Callum’s suspicious death he could not afford to take chances.

  He recalled looking at his watch; it was 3 a.m. and inky dark outside. Where could he hide it? He considered places in the building and its small garden, but ruled them out as being too obvious or too close to home. So where then? It needed to be within walking distance of his flat and easy to find but, perversely, somewhere people wouldn’t look.

  An idea came to him. He had changed into warm, dark-coloured clothes and wrapped a black cashmere scarf around his neck. He looked at himself in the mirror: with his dark skin he would be practically invisible in the shadows – or so he hoped. He picked up his gloves, put them with a number of things into his pockets and slipped quietly out of his front door on to the landing. Slowly, in the pitch black, he went down the three flights of stairs towards the communal front door leading out into the alleyway.

  He was about to open the front door, when the seriousness of his predicament properly sank in. What were the chances he was being watched? Could someone be outside waiting for him to make a move? He felt a cold shiver run down his back. It was preposterous, but he needed to be careful. His friend Callum was dead.

  He checked in his left pocket: keys, torch, gloves – all there. And in his other pocket: USB stick and chewing gum – excellent. Tentatively he opened the front door. The catch clicked back like the bolt of a gun being cocked. He jumped, imagining that everyone could hear him. He recovered his composure. His heart raced, but everything around him remained hushed. He pulled the door ajar, stopping for a moment to test his night vision. Quietly, he slipped outside, closing the door behind him. The passage was sheathed in darkness. He turned right and, hugging the wall, walked slowly up the murky passage towards the next street.

  Near the top of the alley, before turning right towards the Heath, he stopped and looked back. At the bottom of the alley, across the other side of the road, was the silhouette of a Mercedes car parked sideways-on. Large Mercedes cars were popular around where he lived.

  Rafi stood still. Then his heart missed a beat. Was he seeing things? Inside the car there was a small orange glow. The glow of a cigarette tip brightening as someone inhaled. He was petrified, his feet glued to the spot. The small blob of light moved. Oh sod it! There was someone there, watching. He wished the path would
swallow him up. If the person had seen him slip out of the front door, surely he would have followed him? Or perhaps he was waiting to see which way he went? Whether they were on to him or not, Rafi needed to keep moving.

  He headed towards the Heath, and to The Pryors – an upmarket, Edwardian-style apartment block. He turned left off the side of the road and made his way carefully down the path alongside the tall wall of The Pryors. The trees on the edge of the Heath appeared ghostlike, just visible, towering over him. He was feeling utterly terrified. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. There was stillness – a cloak of silence around him. A rustling in the undergrowth startled him. His senses were on their peak setting. He stood still. The noise faded and he moved on again, his heart racing.

  He put his hand into his pocket, pulled out the packet of chewing gum, quietly unwrapped four pieces and put them into his mouth. Sod it, his mouth was parched. Fear had turned off his saliva glands. ‘Think lemons, think lemons,’ he said to himself.

  Rafi turned right and followed the garden wall around a corner for a short distance. In summer, the deep verge between the wall and the path was overgrown with nettles and brambles. In winter long grass, dead brambles and weeds remained. There, against the wall was a small, dark object, barely visible in the gloom. He had first spotted it a couple of summers earlier, when he had gone to retrieve a ball for a child; it had intrigued him and he had carefully inspected it. He approached it tentatively, stopped and turned around to check that there was no one was behind him. He breathed a sigh of relief; everything was still. He stepped forward, took off his glove and placed his hand on top of the frost-covered metal, slid his fingers over the curved front and felt for the protruding letters. Yes, this was the marker post. The raised lettering on its front clearly stated: ‘London County Council Boundary’. There was a small gap between it and the wall. Unlike the other boundary posts Rafi had subsequently looked at next to the wall, the flat metal back of this one had been broken, leaving a small but hidden hole near its top.