My Name Is Not Jacob Ramsay (30 page)

He did so and noticed a little Nigerian boy, about six years old, who was wearing a Manchester United football kit, eating a bag of Walkers salt and vinegar flavoured crisps and looking sad, with big, brown doughy eyes.

"Watch your television programme or put on Toy Story 3. You like that movie film. Daddy will be back later. Maybe I will bring back a new DVD for you off the Chinaman, yes? Go to your room now, you hear me?" ordered the first Nigerian man to the little boy, who lowered his head and shuffled his feet, covered with dangling ill-fitting football socks, out of the hallway and into another dark room.

"You are leaving him on his own?" asked the second man.

"What, you want him to come with us? Are you crazy?"

"He is six years old!"

"But nearly seven. Let's go," replied the man clutching the sports bag that contained more than two million pounds' worth of cocaine. And with that, the two Nigerian men exited the flat.

In a brand new, blue BMW 7 Series sat two Nigerian twin brothers, aged twenty-two. One had a scar on his left cheek and a milky white coloured pupil in his left eye. Either he was blind in that eye or it was simply discoloured for some reason. The scar and the milky white eye were the only differences setting the two brothers apart, as they were dressed identically, in dark blue jeans, black roll necks and black bomber jackets.

The scarred one sat in the passenger seat, while the other brother gripped the steering wheel. The Nigerian brother with the scar turned his head and saw the two older Nigerian men making their way from the flat to the car.

They opened the rear passenger doors and slipped themselves inside the vehicle, just as the engine started up.

"Amala?" said the twin without a scar. Amala was a Nigerian slang term for cocaine.

"Meguski, where were you earlier? I try reaching you onda phone?" replied the cocaine-handling man. Meguski was Nigerian slang for a fool.

"He was acting big man widdat aboki area boy," responded the scar-faced brother, looking with his milky eye at his brother at the wheel, stating he was acting like a boss to a local foolish boy.

"Joo always awoof wid dat arrow," remarked the cocaine handler in his Nigerian slang, saying the man was always doing free stuff for the daft boy.

"Amebo. Gossip. Amebo," said the driver being mocked.

The doors closed and the car pulled away, out of the gloomy looking estate and out of Thamesmead, a part of south-east London widely known as Little Lagos.

At nearly the same time, at 18:45, a very similar situation was also taking place, but this time on the Conaught Estate in Woolwich.

A group of five Somalian men in their mid-twenties made their way to a new Ford Focus. Some wore jeans, some wore tracksuits, and all wore black hooded tops. One carried two Adidas track bags, while the remaining four carried bulging, thin synthetic Nike gym sacks.

They each clambered into the Ford.

The Somali man with the two track bags sat in the passenger seat and unzipped one of the bags, a red one. He pulled out a Mac 10 machine pistol. He checked the magazine. It was full. He placed the weapon back inside the bag.

In the back seats, three of the wiry men each pulled out a varied amount of weaponry themselves. One had an Uzi, while the other two had Glock pistols.

The driver put on his seatbelt and started up the car. He checked his mirrors and shoved the vehicle into gear, released the handbrake and drove off like he had only recently passed his test; either that or he was just extremely cautious and really didn't want to be pulled over by the police. As he drove, the passenger with the two track bags pulled on his own seatbelt and then gently patted the other bag, a blue one.

It was nearing 2:00 and the landline telephone rang. Violet picked up the receiver and quietly answered. It was her friend, Carolyn, who told her that she couldn't divulge too much information, especially not on the telephone.

Carolyn informed Violet that a call was made from Michael's mobile phone at 16:01 the afternoon of the previous day. She said that some statements made in a conversation had been brought to the attention of a division within the Security Services and been linked with Michael's name and address.

"So they knew of Michael's disappearance?" Violet gasped, in hope.

"Well, no. There wasn't any official reporting or notification of Michael being missing until four hours later, when Michael's girlfriend phoned to inform Edward," replied Carolyn.

"Oh, I see. So what happened?"

"Like I said, Violet, I can't say too much and I haven't heard what was recorded from the mobile phone conversation, but what I can say is Michael's phone is being monitored and, no doubt, his home as well.

"By your people?" inquired Violet.

"Yes," replied Carolyn.

"And do you know where the conversation took place? Can you work out things like that?"

"The 16:01 telephone call signaled from SE18: Winn Common Road in Plumstead," Carolyn informed Violet, who jotted it down on a pad beside the landline phone.

"Yes?"

"There was another signal from a different area: SE10, Maidenstone Hill, at 17:22. The signal has been noted to pulse," Carolyn continued.

"Pulse? What does that mean?" Violet asked as she wrote down what she had been told.

"It means the signal is fading in and out. That's all I have. I'm sorry, Violet. I'll let you know if anything significant at all comes up relating to Michael, but please don't worry. I'm sure he's all right."

"Yes. Yes, I know. I hope so. I just hope so. Thank you, Carolyn. I'm so grateful. Thank you. Goodbye now." Violet hung up the receiver as her body jerked forward. She released a sudden sob and a slight wail. She sniffed and exhaled a deep sigh as she looked at the pad that she had just written on. She took up the telephone again.

Edward and Jason sat in the jeep, parked not too far from Plumstead Police Station. Edward sighed and Jason looked at him, feeling lost.

"What do you think we should do, Dad?" he asked.

"I don't know, boy. I just don't know what to do."

"If we had the Afghan kid's address, would we go there?"

"It's too late to go visiting now I think, but anyway, like you said, if we had the add-" Edward paused as his mobile phone rang out. He retrieved it and took the call from his wife.

"Ed? I've just spoken with Carolyn."

"Oh Violet. Why? I said not to yet. What did she say?"

Violet told Edward what her friend, Carolyn from MI-5, had said to her on the phone about the intelligence collected from Michael's phone earlier on.

"OK, so where was the last signal transmitted from? Did she tell you that?" Edward asked, flipping the glovebox open and knocking Jason's knees as he fumbled for a notepad and pen.

"A place called Maidenstone Hill in SE10," Violet replied.

"Maidenstone Hill? Doesn't ring any bells," Edward frowned, twisting the key to the ignition to start the engine.

"Carolyn said the signal was pulsing."

"OK. The phone could be in a tunnel or amongst trees or high-rises maybe. Violet, I've just remembered something. Are you in the kitchen or bedroom?"

"I'm in the bedroom, but I've got the walk-around phone. Why?" she replied, in a more curious, softer tone.

"Can you go into the kitchen to where the phone goes? I need you to get a pencil from my drawer."

Violet entered the kitchen and walked to the corner of it, her every move instructed by Edward.

"Yes, got it," she responded, opening a drawer and retrieving an HB pencil.

"Can you get some grease-proof paper now please?" Edward asked.

Violet thought about the question for two seconds and then opened another kitchen drawer, pulling out a roll of grease-proof paper.

"What shall I do now, Ed?"

"Roll it out and place it over the top of the Yellow Pages."

Violet moved some paperwork off the Yellow Pages and reeled out a length of grease-proof paper before laying it across the top of the phone directory. She tore off the section.

"All right, Ed. I've done it. What now?"

"Hold the paper down firmly and rub the pencil across it, like Mike used to do with coins and brass rubbings," said Edward, patiently.

Violet skimmed the pencil across the grease-proof paper, back and forth, back and forth, some lines harder than others, but all of them picked up the trace of indented letters and a number being revealed from underneath. "It looks like part of an address," Violet said, with surprise in her voice.

"That's good. What can you read, Violet?"

"Gurdon something. I don't know if it's a road or a street or what," she sighed, with instant disappointment.

"That's fine. What's the number?" he asked her.

She told him the number that she had just unearthed.

Edward thanked her for that and then told her to go to bed.

Jason retrieved an A-Z of London from the back of his father's seat, looking up a street called Gurdon.

"It's set back from Woolwich Road," Jason said.

"OK, now look up Maidenstone Hill," replied Edward, shifting into first gear and releasing the handbrake. He drove off as Jason looked up another street.

"It's off Blackheath Hill."

"Which end?" Edward asked.

"Bottom end."

"We'll go there afterwards as it's on the way to the address Mum gave us," Edward stated, driving the vehicle into the night.

Mr Ahmed stepped out of his front door. He was wearing a pair of pale blue pyjama bottoms, a white vest and a maroon dressing gown that flapped open in the night air. In one hand he held a bag of recycling which he put into a wheelie bin. He slid his hand into the gap between the drainpipe and the wall of the house, retrieving a pack of hidden cigarettes. He flipped the pack open and took out a disposable lighter and a cigarette, which he lit. He sat himself on the doorstep and took a long drag of his cigarette, exhaling the smoke, which drifted and disappeared into forever. He frowned, seeing a set of headlights reflect on the side of a car parked opposite and then disappear. Not a sound of an engine, not a glimpse of any more light. Mr Ahmed shrugged and took another pull on the cigarette. He glanced upwards and suddenly started coughing, instantly alarmed, edging himself backwards and up to the next step as he was cast in shadow.

Edward towered above him, staring down, with Jason looming behind him at the garden gate.

"Where's the boy? Where's Abdul Rah-Maan?" Edward asked firmly and directly to a frightened Mr Ahmed. "Are you afraid?" Edward continued, sensing Mr Ahmed's extremely noticeable fear. "Take a deep breath. Breathe out and swallow," commanded Edward to Mr Ahmed, who did exactly as he was told.

"What - what has - he done?" Mr Ahmed stuttered.

"Is Abdul inside the house?" Edward asked.

"Are - are you police?"

"Yes or no? Is Abdul inside the house?" Edward became more assertive and tense.

"Yes. Please - what?"

"Where?"

"Upstairs."

"Which room? Is he asleep?"

"The first room. At the - top. He should - he should be sleeping," Mr Ahmed stammered, frightened by Edward's abruptness.

"What time did he go to bed?"

"Early. After dinner. Around six. He was tired. Preoccupied with something. Please. Tell me. What has Abdul done?"

Edward thought fast, taking in the brief information Mr Ahmed had just told him, staring down at him, intimidatory. "How's his English?"

"English good. Farsi good. Urdu good," Mr Ahmed said, mentally exhausted already.

"But Abdul bad," Edward replied, lowering his left arm, discreetly pointing his forefinger to the ground. The finger was blue, with the hand housed in a Nitrile glove. He darted past Mr Ahmed and into the house.

Jason advanced to the step, with Mr Ahmed staring from the door back to him and about to get to his feet.

"Sit down," Jason ordered Mr Ahmed, who shivered at the sight of the menacing six-foot-plus Jason.

Edward ascended the stairs of Mr Ahmed's home, speedily, yet quietly. He weighed up the environment upon reaching the top and grabbed the handle of the bedroom door with his gloved hand.

Blood seeped from Abdul's stomach as a razor blade ran across his skin, pinched by his forefinger and thumb as he lay on his bed. His teeth were gritted with absolute pain in his face and tears streamed down his cheeks. The blood trickled down one side and onto the bed linen. His eyes quickly diverted to the blood on the sheet, flustering him more and he reached for a box of Kleenex.

Edward barged into the room. He locked eyes with Abdul. In two strides, Edward had reached the boy. Abdul tried to scream out, but to no avail.

Edward covered Abdul's mouth with a cupped hand, grabbing and twisting Abdul's hand that held the razor blade in one swift motion.

Abdul's arm was bent awkwardly up behind his back, with his hand forced in a direction that caused additional, more extreme pain.