He closed his eyes and rocked.
‘My sons,’ he said. ‘They said things – but they were the things that all the young men say.’
‘Like what?’
‘They said – We destroy their buildings but they destroy our countries, Papa. Just talk. Just the talk of all the young men. But I told them – This is your country. And I never dreamed that they would be the ones … that helicopter … all those people … children …’
He squeezed his eyes tight to make the world go away.
I watched him fight for some control and then the shock was subsiding and the grief was kicking in. I stood up and looked down at him.
‘So exactly how much did you know, Mr Khan?’
He shook his head. His eyes were still closed.
‘Did you know your sons brought that helicopter down?’
‘No!’
‘Your house was full of drones. What did you think they were doing with them?’
‘A business, they said. To make a business, Papa. Booming drone industry. Next big thing, Papa. Many opportunities, Papa.’
‘And you believed them?’
‘Yes.’
‘And did they have anyone helping them with this new business? Anyone providing the cash? Anyone advising them? Anyone else you saw associated with what they were doing?’
‘No.’
He was too certain.
‘Your son – Asad – left the house dressed in a woman’s robes. What did you think, Mr Khan – that he was off for another day at the office?’
He looked up at me now.
‘Asad knew they were watching him. Your people. The police. The intelligence services. Whoever does the watching for you. They had stopped watching my sons some months after they came back from Syria but recently they had started again. And Asad knew. He knew they were watching and he said it made it difficult for doing business. So he was hiding from the ones who were watching.’
‘The intelligence services had started monitoring your sons again because they were suspected of planning fresh terrorist atrocities. They should never have stopped watching them after they had returned from Syria.’
‘But they were just aid workers!’
I couldn’t work out if he believed this crap or not.
‘Your sons were not aid workers in Syria. They were fighters for jihad.’
Now he looked at me and his dark eyes were full of pain.
‘They were good boys. They were helping the poor. The victims of war. The children.’
I banged my fist against the wall and watched him flinch.
‘Every murdering bastard I ever met was a good boy who was nice to his dear old mum and wanted world peace. Every gang member. Every thug. And certainly every terrorist. You see the truth at last, don’t you?’
‘I saw my son’s body in the street,’ he said, and his eyes closed at the memory.
The son that had killed DS Stone. The son that Jackson had slotted.
Whatever human sympathy I felt for the old man did not extend to any of his sons.
‘Did you know he had that firearm?’
‘No.’
‘Did your sons have other weapons?’
‘No. I don’t know. No.’
I leaned towards him and lowered my voice. Because there was something that worried me more than anything else.
‘What about the grenades?’ I said. ‘Your sons bought two grenades. Two Croatian grenades. Where are they now?’
He shook his head. ‘I have seen no grenades. No weapons. Are my wife and granddaughter safe? Is my other son safe?’
I realised he meant Adnan. He had not seen Adnan dead in the basement. And nobody had told him.
I could still see Ray Vann raising his Sig Sauer. I could still hear the single shot from a semi-automatic assault rifle fired in a confined space. I could see Adnan Khan being put down.
‘Both your sons died at the scene. Adnan died inside the house after you left with your wife and granddaughter.’
‘Did you see him die?’
I stared at him.
‘No,’ I said.
His shoulders shook as he wept and I wondered at his naivety.
But I looked at the sky-blue ribbon on his London transport uniform, the sky-blue ribbon that so many Londoners felt the need to wear, and I had no doubt about his innocence.
‘Where will they take me?’ he said, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands.
‘They’re going to take you to Paddington Green Police Station.’ A pause. ‘It’s where the Metropolitan Police interrogate terrorist suspects.’
He looked as though he had been kicked in the stomach.
Then he was silent for a long while.
I could hear voices outside the cell. The heavy mob had arrived.
And then he spoke, and his words came out in a torrent.
‘I tried hard to be accepted in this country,’ he said. ‘When I came here in 1976 to marry my wife, my colleagues didn’t like me at first. Pakis out, they told me. But then they liked me. Or at least they accepted me. Because I would work on Sundays. And I would work at Christmas. I would work on all the days they wanted to be with their families. And then they accepted me. And they called me Arnold.’
‘The other bus drivers called you Arnold?’
‘English joke. Because I do not look like an Arnold. And because my name sounded strange to them. But it was hard and it took many years. I tried to explain all of this to my sons. But they did not listen to me. This is your country now, I said. But, Papa, they said, a man’s faith is more important than a man’s country. Because all countries belong to God. When can I go home? Can I go home after Paddington Green?’
‘They are going to take your house apart,’ I said. ‘The floors, the ceiling, the walls. They are going to rip it to pieces.’
‘To punish us?’
‘To search for evidence and weapons. To find those grenades I asked you about. To find out who else they knew and what else they were planning. Not to punish you, Mr Khan. But they’re doing it now. You will not be going home for a while.’
And if someone decides to tie you to the sins of your sons, I thought, you might never be going home.
There were voices outside and then the sound of the key in the lock.
The door opened and a huge man with a mop of white-blond hair filled the doorway. I had first known him as DCI Flashman, a Homicide detective at New Scotland Yard. Now he had to be at Counter Terrorism.
He gave an elaborate sigh at the sight of me.
‘Step outside, Wolfe,’ he said.
Khan seemed to have slipped back into his trance. The custody sergeant stared at him with distaste as he locked the door behind me.
Flashman’s bulk dominated the corridor.
There were three people with him. Two uniformed sergeants to do the heavy lifting and a woman – older, bookish, John Lennon specs – who looked like some kind of lecturer or academic. She had the air of the campus about her.
Except I knew she wasn’t an academic.
Flashman made no attempt to introduce her and I didn’t ask. Because I knew exactly where the woman was from.
And I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. If DS Alice Stone was still alive, I would have kept my mouth shut. But she was in a mortuary and they still hadn’t been able to reach her next of kin. Her family still didn’t know she was dead. Her husband still didn’t know she was never coming home again.
I looked at the woman who needed no introduction.
‘Why the hell weren’t you watching them?’ I said.
Flashman’s face clouded.
‘Wolfe.’
‘You watched the Khan brothers when they came back from Syria,’ I said. ‘But then you stopped.’ I shook my head. ‘And you only started again when West End Central told you they’d been shopping for hand grenades.’