A couple of minutes later there was a knock at the door and a new face appeared. The man was carrying a clean shirt and a plastic first aid box.
‘Meet Sergeant Chris Archery. We thought you should be checked over before we continue,’ said Andy.
Rafi slowly unbuttoned his shirt and then got stuck.
‘Could you help me pull it off?’ Rafi sat there, leaning slightly forward in his chair.
As his shirt came off there was an involuntary intake of breath. ‘Bloody hell, mate!’ exclaimed the sergeant. ‘You’re looking a bit rough aren’t you?’
Rafi’s wrist had swelled up to nearly three times its normal size and had turned a deep shade of purple. He couldn’t see the bruises on his back, but they ached like hell.
‘I can’t do much about your back, but I can strap your wrist,’ the sergeant turned to the two interrogators. ‘Can I give him a couple of painkillers, or are they off the menu?’
‘Don’t see why not. Don’t want him accusing us of treating him badly,’ replied Mike sarcastically.
The sergeant carefully lifted Rafi’s arm up. ‘Looks painful; let’s get it washed and strapped.’ He opened his first aid box, pulled out a couple of sterilised cleaning cloths and wiped Rafi’s forearm, wrist and hand.
‘Hold still; this may be a little uncomfortable.’ An understatement if ever there was one. The sergeant quickly and efficiently strapped his wrist from the base of his thumb to his elbow, then helped Rafi put on a clean shirt.
The sergeant rummaged again in his box and took out a plastic bottle of a yellow-looking liquid. He opened it, poured some of the contents on to a piece of cotton wool and wiped Rafi’s swollen hand. ‘Nothing to do with the treatment. I thought it might cover up the smell; it’s the best I can do on the deodorant front,’ he said grinning at the two interrogators. ‘If that’s all gentlemen, I’ll go now.’
As soon as the door closed, Mike recommenced the inquisition. ‘Tell us where you have put the USB memory stick… And what’s in the files. If you don’t, we’ll give you to the Americans.’
Though the threat was probably hollow, the idea of what they might do scared Rafi. He remained silent for a moment. ‘I suppose a phone call is out of the question?’ he asked hopefully.
‘Bloody well right!’ said Mike.
‘What was on the files? Tell us! Then you get a phone call,’ added Andy.
At last he had something to go on. Up to then he’d been hitting a brick wall. ‘I’ve a proposal,’ Rafi said quietly.
‘Yes, what is it?’ questioned Mike.
‘I’d like to speak to someone, but I’ll need your help.’
‘No way!’ interjected Mike.
‘Please hear me out,’ pleaded Rafi.
‘Make it quick,’ replied Andy.
‘Find me a detective who’s an expert in corporate or economic fraud. The City of London police force has a specialist team. I know they’ll be livid with me as a prime suspect, but if you can get one of them to interrogate me, they’ll understand what I have to say.’
There was silence; it was definitely not what the two MI5 officers had expected to hear.
‘One of our specialists should be able to understand,’ said Andy, who looked as if he’d just eaten a lemon.
‘Should be, isn’t enough. I need to speak with someone who really knows their stuff. The people at City Police are experts and won’t suffer fools gladly. If I’m seen to be wasting their time, they’ll no doubt tell you,’ countered Rafi.
‘Your suggestion is not viable. They are not MI5, nor antiterrorism, so they are outside the group of people we work with,’ said Mike.
‘Even though they’ve got a vested interest in the Bishopsgate bombing?’ insisted Rafi.
‘Oh hell, you’re a little shit, aren’t you? We’ve got enough to bang you up for decades. Your bargaining position is crap and yet you’re asking to be interrogated by a plod from the City of London.’ Mike looked far from pleased.
‘Bloody nutmegs, if you ask me,’ cut in Andy.
Mike frowned. ‘Yes, I agree. I think he is simply trying to give us the run-around.’
‘We’ll ask the boss, but I reckon the answer will be a categorical no,’ said Andy.
They left the room, leaving Rafi to wait anxiously. A couple of minutes later they reappeared.
‘We’ve a proposal. You tell us the information and we then pass the tapes to City of London police.’
‘Are you sure there’s time?’ Rafi asked. ‘All I’m asking is to meet a detective from the City police; you can record the conversation and hear everything we talk about.’
‘I still don’t think it’s a good idea,’ mumbled Andy under his breath.
‘Time for you to go back to your cell,’ ordered Mike.
Rafi was ushered to his cell by another guard, who had obviously been to the same training school as his ugly colleague.
Rafi waited nervously in his cell. He rehearsed in his mind what he was going to say. He waited and waited. Finally they came for him – the walk down the corridor felt like the longest of his life.
As Rafi entered the now familiar room, his heart sank. There were just Andy and Mike waiting for him. His request had fallen on deaf ears. There was no one from the City of London police to interrogate him. He felt thoroughly dejected.
Mike started the conversation. He was looking very pleased with himself. ‘Let us recap why you’re under arrest. We’ve got CCTV footage of your meeting with the Bishopsgate bomber; one of the?20 notes you took from the cashpoint was found in the dead bomber’s wallet; you’ve hidden a USB memory stick with crucial data on it and you’ve consistently refused to cooperate.’
‘What on earth is your defence?’ added Andy.
Rafi’s brain was close to calling it a day. He hesitated. A phrase a former hostage had once used in a TV interview came to mind: It’s the belief in there being a future, that pulls you through the ordeal. Goddamn it, he thought; even if the City Police weren’t there, he still had to give it a try.
‘Could I have a whiteboard or a flip chart?’
‘No, you bloody well can’t!’ snapped Mike.
‘It would speed things up and make things clearer,’ Rafi countered weakly.
‘The answer’s still no,’ added Andy.
‘How about some paper and a pen?’
Andy pushed his pad and a pen over to Rafi, who picked up the biro in his left hand and transferred it across to his swollen right hand, wincing as he started writing on the sheet of paper… The pain wasn’t too bad if he supported his swollen wrist with his left hand. On the the sheet he wrote:?20 note; CCTVfootage; Packed to leave; Callum’s car crash; Prima Terra /Jameel; and USB Memory Stick.
His handwriting was awful, but it was legible. Rafi smiled; he had a framework from which to operate. All he had to do now was to ignore the pain and get his exhausted brain to remember everything he had to say and to put it across clearly.
His throat was dry and his voice scratchy. ‘Any chance of a cup of coffee, white with sugar and no salt, please?’
Andy nodded and, as if by magic, a cup of hot coffee was brought into the room a few moments later.
It gave Rafi the boost he needed. ‘You have me here as your prime suspect. Let me explain why I’m innocent.’
‘This better be good,’ Mike interjected under his breath.
‘I am an innocent bystander, but at the same time I believe I am linked to those involved.’ He looked at the two interrogators. He had got their attention. ‘The CCTV footage showed me taking?500 in?20 notes from the cashpoint, one of which ended up in the dead terrorist’s pocket. How did this happen…? Your records will confirm that, after withdrawing the money, I went straight to The Bishop of Norwich where my firm was holding a celebratory lunch. Jameel Furud asked if I could sub him?360 towards the restaurant tip. The total tip was?500. If you check with the restaurant, you will find that the denominations of the notes that they received were fifteen of my brand new?20s and four?50s.’ Rafi knew this was just a calculated guess, but was prepared to bet he was right. Jameel was a big tipper and liked round numbers. ‘In the process, he pocketed three of my?20 notes, and it was one of these notes you found on the dead body.’