THE THESEUS PARADOX: The stunning breakthrough thriller based on real events, from the Scotland Yard detective turned author. (24 page)

‘Your woman, Miss Groom-Bates, she’s a very odd one. I’d suggest that deep-vein thrombosis started in the legs, and a piece of the blood clot broke off into the bloodstream, which then blocked one of the blood vessels in the lungs. Oxygenated blood was almost totally restricted, which caused sudden death via a massive pulmonary embolism. Natural causes. No signs of any biological blast contamination or foul play. I say very odd only because she isn’t among any of the high-risk groups for DVT. She certainly wasn’t overweight or obese, for example.’

‘Do you know of any contaminants in a blast that could cause a blood clot like that?’ queried Jake.

‘If it were a dirty bomb – I’m talking radioactive – there could possibly have been contaminants in there which might have triggered it. I’ve also read of cases in which suicide bombers have deliberately infected themselves with things such as hepatitis prior to a blast, to inflict maximum damage. But if this was a dirty bomb or a serious epidemic you’d have lots of people affected by something like that. I’ve taken tissue samples, blood samples for toxicology and I’ve taken vitreous humour as well – that will tell us more.’

There was a slight upturn at the corners of her mouth as she stared at him. She’d done it on purpose. She knew he didn’t have a clue what vitreous humour was.

Jake played along. ‘Vitreous humour? I’m assuming it’s nothing to do with comedy?’

Angela smiled. ‘No, Inspector. Vitreous humour is the fluid within the globe of the eye, between the retina and the lens. It’s ninety-nine percent water. It’s isolated from the rest of the body and is a great post-mortem sample for toxicology analysis. Was your woman using drugs?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘Well don’t judge prematurely. The toxicology samples will tell us for sure,’ Dr Farthing replied.

Jake nodded in agreement. ‘Well – it’s certainly a puzzle. But if anyone will find any anomalies, it’s you, doctor. Don’t suppose you fancy a chat about it over a drink tonight?’

There was a pause. ‘…I’m busy tonight. Maybe some other time.’

Angela stood and shook his hand far more formally than he would have liked, as if to usher him out and away.

Jake got back in the car.

‘Everything all right?’ asked Lenny.

Jake slumped back in his seat, arms curled over his head, slightly dazed. ‘It was really surreal…’

‘What happened?’ asked Lenny, shocked. ‘What did the doc say?’

66

Friday

19 August 2005

1400 hours

Chelsea Harbour mortuary, Imperial Wharf, south-west London

‘Well…’ began Jake, confused, ‘she turned me down!’

‘What?’ guffawed Lenny.

‘I know!’ said Jake in disbelief. ‘My advances were rebuffed! Can you believe it?’

‘I meant about Groom-Bates, man!’

‘Oh, yeah, that…’ Jake realised he was distracted and tried to pull himself together. ‘She thinks it’s natural causes. Blood clot in the lungs. Weird.’

Lenny tried to jolly him along. ‘She was a fake professor. Weird in life and weird in death. She was having a tough time, about to lose her job. You can get blood clots through stress though, you know?’

‘Can you? I’m surprised I’ve not keeled over and kicked the bucket before now then.’

Lenny laughed as he pulled out of the car park and past the high-rise penthouses. ‘Where to now, boss?’ he asked.

‘You, you lucky man, are headed for a weekend off, Lenny!’

‘Am I? Fuck me, I’ve forgotten what they are!’ He beamed. ‘Last day I had off was the weekend before the bombings, second and third of July!’

Lenny was acting like he’d won the Euromillions draw before it had even taken place, thought Jake. He felt a pang of envy when he remembered that spark of excitement. What it felt like to be given a spare weekend off to go home and see his family.

Heading toward central London on Cheyne Walk, the traffic slowed to a standstill in both directions. The houseboats to Jake’s right, just before Battersea Bridge, were all sitting very low in the mud and not moving. The tide was out; they were waiting for the water to flow back underneath them at some point tonight. Jake realised he’d missed London.

Beyond the houseboats, he was mesmerized by Battersea Bridge for a moment, deep in thought.

‘IRA,’ he mumbled to himself.

‘What?’ asked Lenny.

‘Hammersmith Bridge,’ Jake replied.

‘No! That’s Battersea Bridge!’ Lenny chuckled.

‘I know. The IRA, they tried to bring down Hammersmith Bridge with explosives three times. In 1939, 1996 and 2000.’

‘I didn’t know they did it in 1939. Can I drop you home and take the car back to mine then, Jake?’ Lenny asked. He was excited. He’d be home with his wife by 5 p.m. if all went to plan.

‘Now 1996, that was a bad year for London. The IRA tried to blow up Hammersmith Bridge in April. They’d blown up South Quay in Docklands in February, just two months before, with a lorry bomb. I was one of the first on scene.’

Jake began to remember the complete devastation he had seen; the huge hole in the ground where the lorry had been. Every building for half a mile was completely wrecked. Debris and concrete everywhere. Some buildings had moved on their foundations, the blast had been that strong.

‘Wow. I didn’t know you went there,’ Lenny said, wracking his brains to understand why Jake was talking about this stuff on a Friday afternoon.

‘I was on the late shift. Bomb went off at 1900 hours. Heard it go off the other side of the river. Incredible noise. They’d given a coded warning. The area was evacuated. Two newspaper sellers refused to move. Stayed in the cordon. Both killed. There wasn’t much we could do to be honest, not once it had gone off. I was fascinated with how the blast had travelled. You could see it. It had gone up to some buildings and totally destroyed them. With others it had gone through windows; not damaged the outside too much, but ripped the insides to shreds and dumped it out the other side. Incredible sight. That event, that was what made me want to be Anti-Terrorist Branch.’

There was silence in the car. The houseboats were gone. Battersea Bridge was behind them as they plodded along Chelsea Embankment, nose to tail with the rest of the traffic.

‘It’s a way of life for terrorists. It’s what they do. They never stop. You have to catch them.’

‘I know. You having the weekend off, Jake?’ Lenny asked, trying to change the subject.

‘I’ve got a weekend with Ted… I might do some work.’ Jake sighed.

‘What work?’

‘The telephone stuff the analysts are doing down here. I’ve managed to get hold of a few more bits of it. I’m gonna take a look at it. I think there’s stuff they’re missing – important stuff.’

‘Why don’t you go and see the kids? We can do the phone stuff together on Monday?’

‘The bombings happened forty-two days ago, Lenny. We still have no idea who helped them do it. Another two days until Monday. Another week for me to get my head round the mountain of telephone shit. Another month before we’ve got anything decent to work on. Another six months before we’ve got suspects to look at? It’s taking too long. We might even have some sort of dirty bomb on our hands!’

‘But you’ve got to have a rest from this stuff, Jake. It will eat you up otherwise. Maybe that’s why you’re drinking so much?’

‘You think I’m drinking too much?’

‘I think you’re drinking every night to escape what we’ve got our face in every day. I think we all need some downtime to recharge – even you!’

‘Maybe…’ Jake sighed again.

They hadn’t moved for several minutes. Traffic was at a standstill.

Jake pushed open the car door and got out. He shut it and leaned in through the open window.

‘Spin round, Len. Get yourself off home. Have a good weekend. Pick me up at 8 a.m. Monday morning, my place.’

Jake turned and walked toward the pavement. As he reached the kerb he heard Lenny hoot the car horn. He turned and looked at him.

‘Rest, Jake. Rest!’ Lenny mouthed to him over the noise of the traffic. Jake nodded back and started to stroll along the pavement in the late-afternoon sun.

67

Friday

19 August 2005

1500 hours

Thames Embankment, central London

Jake crossed the road, zigzagging between the essentially stationary cars. He stood against a wall and looked across the river at the Buddhist Peace Pagoda in Battersea Park. The sun bounced off the mudflats as a small motorboat made its way downstream in what little water was left available in the middle of the river. The golden Buddha surveyed the scene from the other bank, staring back at Jake from underneath its pagoda.

‘Religion,’ Jake snarled at it with contempt.

He pulled his Nokia from his pocket and dialled Claire. It rang, but there was no reply. Almost immediately he got a text back from her.

‘Can’t talk. What’s up?’

They began texting each other. Jake couldn’t understand why she could manage to text but couldn’t talk. Was he a secret? What was she hiding?

He texted back.

‘I’m off this weekend. Hoping we could see each other?’

‘I can’t come out tonight, I’ve got too much work on. Sorry.’

‘What about the weekend?’

‘No. Too busy. Sorry.’

Jake fought the emotions. Was she was trying to tell him to get lost? That she didn’t care about him, didn’t love him? He tried calling her again. Again she didn’t pick up.

The phone buzzed in his hand. Another text from Claire.

‘Call you later.’

He knew she wouldn’t.

‘I wish you’d just fucking tell me the truth, so I know where I stand,’ Jake shouted back at the SMS.

Maybe he did need to drink. Jake turned on his heels and walked off toward the barracks.

‘If you won’t love me, someone else will,’ he growled to himself, heading for the nearest pub.

Jake wandered down several side streets on his route away from the river, as he hunted for a pub. There wasn’t a single one to be seen, just posh houses and apartments with expensive cars parked outside. He turned onto the main thoroughfare. Surely he’d get a decent pint on the King’s Road?

The road had, up until 1820, been the King’s private route to Kew. Only the King and a select few were authorised to use it. The riff-raff were banned. The route was said to have ‘afforded the best overland access from Westminster’ – quite important really, when you were passing through swamps that were plagued by robbers and bandits.

Jake looked left and right up the road. There was no sign of any king, nor any swamps or robbers today, just lots of traffic.

Several Routemaster buses lined the thoroughfare, chucking out smoke as they sat there. They looked like elegant, cougar mothers next to their low-floor-chassis daughters. All the grace of Joanna Lumley parked up next to the equivalent of Kat Slater from
Eastenders
, thought Jake – and soon to be phased out due to the upcoming Disability Discrimination Act.

He spotted Habitat and the Curzon cinema on his right and remembered that there was a pub, The Trafalgar, nearby. Perfect for being alone and drowning one’s sorrows, thought Jake. The Spanish and French had lost most of their ships in the battle of Trafalgar and the British had won. Jake would celebrate Nelson’s win. He sauntered off up past the cinema in the direction of the pub.

Once through the double doors and into the darkened pub interior, he relaxed. At the large bar in front of him, the old men dotted along its length appeared like guards looking over the parapet of a castle wall, protecting an alluring barmaid.

Jake stood at an unguarded part of the bar and made eye contact with her. Long dark hair, tight black trousers and a fitted waistcoat open just enough to reveal the crown of her breasts. She wandered toward him with a smile.

‘What can I get you?’

Jake struggled not to look at the part of her cleavage that was on display.

‘A pint of your finest lager, please.’ He got the words out quickly, determined to avoid dropping his gaze.

Deftly, the barmaid reeled off a long list of lagers. The bar was noisy and she had a soft voice. Jake only heard Carlsberg and settled for that. He watched amid the other guards as her petite figure bobbed about, grabbing a glass and pulling his pint.

Jake paid for his beer and chose a sofa positioned with a good view of the street. He sipped the cold lager. People walked along the pavement outside carrying expensive-looking paper bags from designer shops.

He flinched as he heard a booming, barrow-boy voice bellow his name from the doorway:

‘Jake Flannagan! As I live and breathe!

68

Friday

19 August 2005

1700 hours

The Trafalgar, King’s Road, Chelsea

Jake looked up. A whippet of a man dressed in smart blue jeans and a beige Armani T-shirt was running his hands through a thick, black curtain of hair and grinning at him from the doorway.

It was Zarshad Ali.

He wandered over and plonked himself in the low sofa opposite. Jake suddenly remembered that Zarshad lived on the council estate over the back of the pub.

‘You get that car you was after? The Civic? One of your Yorkshire mates came and collected it from me. Can’t remember the geezer’s name.’

‘Yes, thanks – it was perfect, Zarshad.’

‘Good, good. Can I get you a drink? Join you for couple, Jake?’

There were strict rules about meeting registered informants. You had to go through a controller to authorise it. Jake knew that he should decline the drink and move to another pub – that was the ethical, professional Jake thinking. But he wasn’t here.

‘Get me another Carlsberg, mate. Thanks.’

One drink wouldn’t hurt. He’d let the controller know tomorrow. Jake downed the remainder of his pint in three gulps.