‘It went wrong from the go,’ I said. ‘From the moment the jump-off van pulled up outside.’
I told her almost everything. I told her about the figure in the niqab coming out of the house and Asad Khan opening fire before we had even got started. I told her what happened on the street. I told her about Alice Stone and Asad Khan dying within seconds of each other. I told her about telling Mr and Mrs Khan and their granddaughter Layla to raise their hands and run.
But I did not tell her about the basement and Adnan Khan on his knees and DC Ray Vann looking at him through the sights of his assault rifle. I didn’t tell her about the single shot in the basement that was still ringing in my ears, or the muzzle blast that was still burned on the back of my retina.
The sounds of the crowd down in Savile Row drifted up through the open windows. I looked at Edie, still not understanding what they were doing here.
‘It’s probably because we’ve got the Khan family, or what’s left of them,’ Edie said. ‘They were brought here after the op. The father and the mother and the girl, Layla, the daughter of the brother who got slotted in Syria. Mrs Khan and the girl are on the second floor with the FLO.’
Family Liaison Officer.
‘And what about Mr Khan?’ I asked.
‘He’s down in the custody suite.’
‘Why have they got him locked up?’ I said.
‘Waiting for CTC,’ Edie said. ‘Then they’re shipping him over to Paddington. That’s why there’s a bit of a mob outside – because we have the old man. It is all very civilised so far, but I think they would quite like to see him hanging from a lamppost. He had three sons and all of them were terrorists. It’s not a good look, is it?’
CTC is Counter Terrorism Command and Paddington is Paddington Green Police Station where almost all terrorists are interrogated. When the news reports that a terrorist suspect is in ‘a central London location’ it means that they are inside Paddington Green. IRA headbangers, failed suicide bombers and graduates from Guantanamo Bay have all graced the cells and interview rooms of Paddington Green. It looks like a budget hotel, if you can imagine a budget hotel with two-inch-thick steel doors.
I thought of the Khans cowering with terror on the floor of the kitchen. I remembered the old man, the old woman and the teenage girl fleeing with their hands in the air. It had not crossed my mind that the old man, Ahmed Khan, was ready to die for jihad.
‘They looked like victims to me, Edie,’ I said. ‘They looked like they’d had innocent contact. They didn’t look like terrorists.’
She shrugged.
‘But the old man must have known, right? Maybe the old lady and the kid had innocent contact. But the father? I mean – he must have known about his sons, Max. I hear the place on Borodino Street was full of drones. Not even hidden. What did he think they were doing with them? Innocent contact means he knew nothing. And how could he have known nothing, Max?’
Maybe she was right. I rubbed my eyes as we rode the lift down to the second floor.
We heard Mrs Khan before we saw her. She was shouting in Urdu and crying her eyes out.
‘Translator?’ I said.
‘On his way,’ said the FLO. ‘Stuck in traffic.’
The FLO was struggling to calm Mrs Khan while the girl, Layla, sat hunched at a desk letting her long black hair fall over her face. Uniformed officers watched the woman and the girl with wary reserve. It is never easy to deal with the relatives of the wicked. They are always tainted by the sins of their family. They are always suspected.
But Edie Wren sat down next to Layla Khan and gently took her hands. The teenage girl gasped with shock at her touch and tried to pull her hands away.
But Edie smiled gently and would not let go.
‘I like your nails,’ Edie said. ‘Layla, is it? I’m Edie. I work here.’ She studied the girl’s nails, which were a garish shade of green. ‘So where did you get them done? They’re really pretty.’
The girl swept her mane of long black hair from her face.
‘I did them myself, didn’t I?’ Layla Khan said, and even as her grandmother continued to shout in Urdu, there was nothing in her voice but the streets of London.
She blinked at Edie with huge brown eyes, as if amazed that small acts of human kindness still existed in the world.
5
I took the lift down to the custody suite.
The custody sergeant on the desk signed me in.
‘You were in Borodino Street?’ he said.
I nodded.
‘I heard about that young shot they killed,’ he said, his eyes shining with emotion. ‘That’s all anybody is talking in here. It’s so senseless. Forty-four dead in that shopping centre and now this bloody mess.’
‘Forty-five,’ I said. ‘Apparently they just found a child’s body.’
‘Forty-five? Those animals.’ He shook his head. ‘And that young DS. Alice Stone. Where does it end, sir?’
‘I don’t know if it does,’ I said. ‘Not in our lifetime.’
‘Are you going to have a word with this scumbag?’
‘Yes,’ I said. I waited until the sergeant gave me eye contact. ‘But we got them,’ I said. ‘Both of them. As far as we know, this man is just a relative.’
The custody sergeant did not look convinced. I followed him into the observation room and we looked in at Ahmed Khan. He sat unmoving in his cell, perched on the edge of a bed that had not been disturbed, a gaunt, hollow-cheeked man, as thin as his wife was stout. They were built like one of those married couples in an old seaside postcard, I thought, the husband a slight, unassuming figure who wouldn’t hurt a fly and his wife a loud, big-boned creature who would swat anything that got in her way. For the first time I noticed that he too was wearing a sky-blue ribbon on his London Transport uniform. And I wondered if I was kidding myself. I wondered if I was being played.
‘You want an audio feed on this?’ the custody sergeant asked me.
I shook my head. ‘It’s not a formal interview. I just need to talk to him before the heavy mob get here.’
The custody sergeant nodded but I could see he didn’t like it. Too bad. I had earned the right to talk to Ahmed Khan. The sergeant unlocked the door of the custody suite. I went inside and heard the door slam shut and lock behind me.
Ahmed Khan did not look up at me from where he sat on the edge of the custody suite’s low single bed. The events of the last few hours had left him catatonic with shock.
‘Remember me?’ I said.
His eyes slid towards me.
His head jerked sideways. That was a negative.
I held up my hands, palms facing outwards.
‘How about now?’ I said.
Then there was recognition on that skull-like face.
‘You told us to run. You were very kind. And we ran. And we held up our hands but I was still afraid they would shoot us. I saw my dead son. In the street. My Asad. And I saw the dead policewoman. Everyone was shouting …’
He hung his head at the memory.
I sat down next to him on that miserable little bed.
And I stared at him hard with that inbred, hard-earned cop hunger for guilt. I wanted to see it for myself. I needed to see if I was kidding myself that this man was a victim. I remembered Alice Stone, her body half in the street and half on the pavement, and I felt my heart harden. Maybe Edie Wren was right.
He must have known!
Except I could not believe it. The first time I saw him he looked like a victim. And, whatever his bastard sons had done, Ahmed Khan looked like a victim to me.
But if he had not known about his sons in the past, then he sure as hell knew now.
‘Why am I here?’
I felt pity for the man. But it was a stupid question.
‘One of your sons killed one of my colleagues. He would have killed all of us if he had the chance. Your house is full of drones just like the one that brought down that Air Ambulance helicopter over Lake Meadows shopping centre in West London.’ I leaned closer to him and almost whispered in his ear. ‘Do you really need to ask me why you are here?’