State Of Emergency: (Tom Buckingham Thriller 3) (18 page)

‘And Adila?’

‘Who?’

‘My sister.’

Dawes glanced down again at the file in front of him and shrugged. ‘Probably.’

Jamal felt the pain engulf him once more, like a toxic chemical coursing through his body. None of this should have been happening. He closed his eyes for a second, and when he opened them again Dawes had moved directly into his line of vision. Jamal leaned forward and took a breath. ‘What about the video? You have it. It should be online – on TV.’

Dawes nodded slowly, his eyebrows raised.

‘What does that mean? Yes?’

‘Me policeman, you suspect. I ask the questions, you answer them. Got it?’ Dawes glanced at Richmond.

‘On what basis are you questioning me?’

Richmond took a breath and blew it out slowly. They both looked at him in mock-dismay.

‘You haven’t arrested me.’

‘Schedule Seven, mate,’ Dawes informed him. ‘Don’t need to.’

‘What’s that?’ Jamal tried to keep his tone mild, with no hint of aggression.

Dawes sighed as if it was obvious, closed his eyes and recited, ‘“Under Schedule Seven of the Prevention of Terrorism Act, 2000, any individual can be detained for up to nine hours if there is a suspicion that they are, or have been, concerned with the commission, preparation or instigation of acts of terrorism.”’ He opened his eyes again. ‘Do you understand?’

‘May I?’ He pointed at the pencil and pad on the table.

Dawes frowned, then brightened. ‘You ready to write a statement? Where you’ve been, how you got there, what you did when you were there and with whom?’

Jamal reached forward slowly, picked up the pencil with his bandaged fingers and tried to close them round it. With some effort he produced a name in shaky capitals: ALISTAIR LATIMER, the lawyer whose name Emma had given him.

Dawes spun the pad round, glanced at it, snorted and pushed it away.

‘He’s a human-rights lawyer,’ said Jamal.

Dawes sighed. ‘I know who he is.’

‘He should know I’m back.’

Dawes nodded excitedly. ‘Mate, the whole world knows.’ He reached into his case, pulled out a newspaper and flipped it open. ‘You’ve got joint top billing.’

Jamal found himself staring at his own graduation picture. Alongside it was the face of a man he didn’t recognize standing at a lectern – very animated. Across the top was the banner headline,
PACK YOUR BAGS
, and beneath,
ROLT: IN
. Under Jamal’s picture, the caption read,
AL BRITANI: OUT
.

‘Who is this man?’

Dawes was grinning. ‘Him? Vernon Rolt, the new home secretary, your worst nightmare. He’s just made you public enemy number one.’

This was wrong, completely wrong. He felt a surge of nausea and looked away. Richmond unfolded her arms. ‘Use the bin if you want to chuck.’

‘This shouldn’t be happening. I gave you the card. You have my evidence.’

He had shot the footage with Emma’s camera, risked everything to capture the beheadings. Had something happened to it? Had he been tricked? How? Why? Who by? He was panting now, struggling to keep his composure. His head was spinning. He wanted very badly to lie down, and curl himself into a ball. No, he told himself. He had already been to Hell and got away. He must hold himself together, whatever happened. He slowed his breathing. ‘I believe it’s my right to see a lawyer.’

Dawes didn’t respond. He put the paper down and went back to the file, flicking through the pages without reading them, as if browsing a catalogue, still whistling tunelessly. Eventually he closed it and pushed it away.

‘Things have changed while you’ve been away, Jamal. And they’re gonna change some more. People have had enough of your lot and all your human rights. They want
their
human rights. They’re fed up with being terrorized by people who hate this country. We’ve had an election. And guess what, Jamal? It doesn’t matter a fuck what you say. Vernon Rolt’s going to make an example of you. By the time the new lot’s finished with you, you’re gonna wish you’d stayed in Syria.’

31

15.30
Hendon, North London

Tom woke from a deep but disturbed sleep in which the encounters with Randall and the intruder replayed themselves, blurred together in one titanic struggle. His eyelids felt as though they were made of lead.

When he realized there was another figure in the room they snapped open.

‘Awright, Tom? Brought you a brew.’

He relaxed as he heard the voice, then a mug coming to rest on a surface close to his ear. Daylight oozing in round the edge of the curtains gave some shape to the large silhouetted figure bending over him. Tom hauled himself up onto an elbow, felt the sting from the flesh-wound. His head was thick with sleep. Outside he could hear the dull roar of fast-moving traffic. ‘What time is it?’

‘Tea time.’

‘Yeah, but what
time
?’

‘Three thirty.’

‘
P.m.?
’

Almost a whole day wasted. Tom found the switch for the bedside light, which illuminated the face of the tea bringer, who grinned. ‘Reckon you had some kip to catch up on after the last couple of nights’ excitements.’

As soon as his shoulder had been treated by the medics at the scene, a team of four had spirited Tom away from the flat. The damage had turned out to be little more than a graze, though the flesh had opened like a split in a grilled sausage, but there was no argument. He couldn’t stay at the flat. The cops were there on the direct orders of the new home secretary and weren’t about to let him out of their sight.

‘Where are we?’

‘Safe and sound.’

‘Yeah, right. Does that have a postcode?’

‘Hendon. That pleasant hum you can hear is the North Circular.’

‘What’s the plan?’

‘Stay here until further notice. With a bit of luck we can get you moved to somewhere more comfortable.’

The sleep might have been necessary but time was ticking on.

‘Where’s my car?’

‘One of the lads drove it up. I’m Vic, by the way.’

‘Good to meet you, Vic.’ He took a gulp of tea. Judging by the size of the window and the sounds outside, the flat was on the first or second floor.

‘We can do you a fry-up or send out for something when you’re good.’ He gestured at the TV screen. ‘The remote’s on the side there. And you’ve got Sky Sports.’ Vic zapped the screen into life. Rolt’s face appeared. A crawler caption said something about ‘Butcher of Aleppo’.

‘What’s this?’

Vic snorted. ‘You couldn’t make it up. Guy tops a bunch of school kids in Syria, then gets the plane home.’

Tom took the remote and leaned back on his undamaged shoulder. He wanted to give Vic and his crew the strongest possible impression that he was happy to chill.

As soon as he was alone, Tom leaped up and lifted the curtains. It was a low-rise block. He could see his car in a space about forty metres away. But he didn’t have the keys. In a wardrobe he found his jacket, felt for his pistol and two spare mags. As soon as the intruder had fled the flat he had gone to get it.

Taking out the Sig, he pushed the mag release with his right thumb and caught the thirteen rounds in his left before racking back the top slide to check the chamber. Once he knew it was clear he released the top slide, squeezed off the action, then pushed home the mag once more until it gently clicked into place. The weapon was now made safe. All Tom had to do was rack back and release the top slide to feed a round into the chamber to make ready. These drills had been drummed into him from the day he had joined the army. If you don’t know the state of your weapon, you check it.

He had to get out of here. The attack in Jez’s flat had just added to the pile of pressing questions to which he must find answers. Staying here would achieve nothing, but these guys weren’t going to be talked round.

Still in his T-shirt and boxers, he ventured out to the bathroom where they had thoughtfully placed a new toothbrush and a rather small towel. The window was obscured with a frosted leaf pattern. He opened it to get a look at the other side of the building. Below the window in the service yard was a skip packed with tree prunings.

On his way back to the room he looked into the kitchen.

‘All right, sir?’

So there were two of them.

‘My glasses are in the car. You got the keys?’

The second guy stood up. He appeared to be the more junior. ‘No worries. I’ll get them for you. Orders are to keep you out of sight till further notice.’

Oh, well, then it had to be Plan B.

‘It’s Mike, by the way, sir.’

Tom grinned and shook his hand firmly. ‘Tom will do fine.’

He watched Mike grab a jacket on his way out. He had to have the keys to the Range Rover on him. He heard one key going into the front-door lock, then a second. They weren’t taking any chances.

On the kitchen counter he saw a couple of large loaves of sliced white, two boxes of teabags, two jars of instant coffee and two boxes of eggs. He opened the fridge door: bacon, sausages and five two-litre cartons of milk. Enough to last several days. Tom went back to the bathroom, had a shower, dressed and reappeared in the kitchen.

‘No glasses,’ said Mike, shaking his head. ‘Couldn’t see them.’

‘Must’ve left them in the flat. Thanks anyway.’

Mike hung his coat in the hall. ‘Want me to get someone to bring them up?’

‘Nah. But I could do with some food.’

‘At your service.’

Mike got to work on a fry-up while Tom sat and chatted with both men. They had joined the Met straight out of school, never wanted to do anything else, didn’t like what was going on in the country and were hoping that the new home secretary would give them the chance to get stuck in and sort things out.

Tom agreed with everything they said, knowing only too well that it was all going to be a lot more complicated than that. But the task now was to relax them into dropping their vigilance.

The food was welcome. He demolished the lot and had another mug of tea with it.

‘Why don’t we get in a takeaway and watch something?’

‘Mike’s brought some DVDs.’

They gave each other a knowing look.

The films turned out to be
Mission: Impossible
and others in the same vein.

Five hours and three kebabs later, they were halfway through the second Tom Cruise when Tom got up to go to the toilet. He had already put on his trainers. He made for Mike’s coat, found the keys to his Range Rover but not the front-door keys. Mike must still have them on him. Tom headed into the bathroom and locked the door, then put down the lid of the toilet and climbed onto it. A raw gust of icy air swept into the room when he opened the window. He hoisted himself up and put his feet through first. He could just squeeze out, twisting his body sideways. To drop he would need to turn right round and push himself away from the brickwork.

‘Oh, fuck.’

The skip with its bed of trimmed foliage was gone. He cursed himself for not checking first. He gripped the sill of the window he had just come through while he searched for an alternative. The wastepipe was just below his feet, running down diagonally to a main pipe on his left. Flattening himself against the wall, he found a footing. But that committed him to going down. There was next to no chance of hauling himself back up to the window, and the drop from that height would still put him in hospital. He thought about dropping and making a grab for the pipe and ruled it out as too risky.

Then he saw, running vertically a couple of feet to his left, a satellite cable. He felt for it and worked his fingers under it. There was just enough slack between the fixings for him to get a decent grip. He gave it a tug to see how firm it was. It didn’t come away. It might help get him to the main pipe. He put his weight on his one foot on the pipe, gripped the cable and lowered his left. He swapped hands on the cable, still trying to keep all his weight on the pipe, then slid himself down and along to the main wastepipe. With loud pings the two nearest cable fixings came away from the wall. He feared that would be it, but the cable held further up and he kicked with his right so that he swung close to the downpipe – but not close enough. His right hand gripped the cable, the thin plastic cutting into his fingers. A sliced hand and a broken back awaited him. He kicked again at the pipe and swung further this time, far enough to reach the downpipe with his left foot. He threw his last vestige of caution to the wind, let go of the cable and somehow got both hands on the pipe. From there it was just a matter of shimmying down.

He landed hard, winded and with a bloody hand, but he was free.

He reckoned he had about three minutes before they raised the alarm. By then he would be on the M1 heading north.

32

17.00
Belmarsh Prison, South London

The cell, on Wing Seven, was two metres by three. A window of thick, heavily scratched Perspex covered with steel mesh gave only a blurred view of a floodlit wall. As well as a shelf just wide enough to take a thin, narrow mattress, there was a TV on a plastic bench in one corner and a metal toilet in the other, with a small basin beside it.

‘See these?’ The officer pointed out the long lever tap handles on the basin. ‘Abu Hamza was in here six years.’ He made two hooks with his forefingers and flicked the cold tap on and off. ‘Should have a blue plaque up for him.’ He gave a mirthless laugh.

The process of just getting into the prison had taken nearly two hours. Fifteen doors and gates had to be negotiated. In the high-security unit, a grey solid block of a building – a prison within a prison – he was put through a series of security checks. First, he was told to remove everything he was wearing – even though it had all been given to him by the police who’d taken away the clothes he’d arrived in. Naked, he then had to walk through a metal detector before being subjected to an intimate body search. The soles of his feet, the spaces between his toes, his ears, his nose, his mouth and rectum were all thoroughly and humiliatingly examined. A sniffer device checked for any internal explosive devices. After getting dressed again he remained with two prison officers while they waited for clearance to go through a green metal door. Once through that he faced another locked door and a four-minute wait while he was scanned by CCTV cameras. After that, he was escorted out into the biting cold, an exercise yard, bright as day in the floodlights, surrounded by high fences topped with barbed wire and metal mesh for a roof. Two inmates were pacing the perimeter, watched by four prison guards. They all paused to stare at the newcomer.