The commissioner paused before making his reply. He had his concerns. The modi operandi of the attack troubled him. The bomber was not a suicide bomber and had not intended to be a victim of the bombing. It looked as if the timer had set off the bomb sooner than expected. Then there was the rucksack of explosives. It had produced far more damage than would have been expected from home-made C4 explosives, the telltale trademark of bomb attacks orchestrated by an ITS – Islamic Terror Syndicate – to which MI5 seemed convinced Rafi belonged. And how the terrorist had managed to get into the garage unchallenged worried him. He had personally reviewed the security of all his police stations only weeks earlier. The garage should not have been unguarded. At least he had been able to secure a copy of the CCTV footage showing the suspect’s meeting with the bomber.
‘We have a number of ongoing enquiries… Which look promising,’ replied the commissioner.
‘Excellent. Please let me know if you require any additional resources. I shall be available 24/7. My Government has every confidence in your ability to track down and bring to justice these barbaric criminals.’
Had the cameras not been trained on the minister, they would have spotted a fleeting frown on the commissioner’s face. He had asked to interview the suspect, but had been thwarted. ‘It is a matter for MI5, given the gravity of the situation,’ the commissioner had been told by his political masters. He had lost three of his police officers and had two more on the critical list. He did not like being out of the loop and had gone to the top. A meeting was being scheduled for Monday with his longstanding friend, the head of MI5. He wished it could have been sooner. The commissioner stood there while the minister took questions from the press, anxious to get on with his work.
Suddenly a signal was given and the interview was over. The press officer spoke to the reporters. ‘The minister will now be visiting the injured at the Royal London Hospital, in Whitechapel Road, and will be available for further questions there. Those of you with red press passes have been allocated seats in the hospital’s press room.’
The commissioner watched as the flak jacket was tossed to an aide.
‘Nice touch, that helmet,’ said the minister. ‘What did you use for the puddle?’
‘Coca Cola,’ came the aide’s reply.
The minister smiled and strode off towards his chauffeurdriven car without so much as a goodbye to the commissioner, who turned and headed back to work.
Back in his cell, Rafi sat on the bed, trying to work out what was going on. His thoughts kept drifting back to the previous Thursday. The early morning meeting had been an upbeat affair. His boss, Jameel, had announced that he’d arranged an impromptu lunch to mark the bounce in the stock market.
During the morning Rafi had tried ringing Callum a couple more times, but his mobile had still gone straight to voicemail.
Then just before lunch Jameel had walked over to Rafi’s desk. ‘I think we should be prepared for some serious celebrations,’ he had said. ‘I need to go across to The Bishop of Norwich, the restaurant, to line up a few things. Could you do me a favour and drop by the cashpoint and draw out, say?500, in case I don’t have enough cash for the bar bills and tips?’
‘Fine,’ Rafi had replied, thinking nothing of it. There was a row of cashpoints between the office and the restaurant, in Moorgate. By the sounds of things, it was definitely going to be a session and a half for his drinking colleagues.
Lunch was booked to start at 12.30 p.m. The whole fund management team was invited. The restaurant welcomed the unexpected request for lunch for twenty-eight and arranged an area for just Prima Terra. No expense was spared; the food was first-class and, judging by his colleagues’ remarks, the champagne and wine were excellent. Before, during and after lunch the drinks flowed freely. Rafi’s colleagues became increasingly well lubricated and were on great form. Rafi, for his part, did not drink.
Ben, a burly lad from the East End, who looked as if he’d missed the opportunity of being a second row rugby forward, was revving up for a long session. He and a group of his colleagues decided that it was the perfect evening to visit a nightclub. They’d recently returned from a stag night in Warsaw and had coined a new expression: zloty for totty. This was their war cry, which the dealer next to Rafi was chanting. It was going to be a very long and lively celebration. Ben and his friends decided that they’d have a few more drinks and then move on to a cocktail bar in the West End, for some visual entertainment.
Rafi remembered looking down at his watch; it had been nearly six o’clock. Half an hour earlier, Jameel had given his apologies and had left to catch a flight to Paris. Rafi still hadn’t spoken to Callum. He rang his mobile without success, and then decided to ring his office and leave a voicemail message, but to his surprise his call was diverted.
A kind-sounding woman from Landin Young’s HR team had answered the phone. ‘Mr Khan, I have some distressing news…’ She stopped and then, after a short pause, added, ‘I’m very sorry, but Callum Burns has been killed in a car accident. He was in Luxembourg on his way to Belgium when his Mercedes hit black ice, crashed and caught fire. Can I get one of his colleagues to phone you in the morning?’
Rafi could not reply straight away. He was nearly sick on the spot. Utter disbelief had been his immediate reaction. Then the shock struck home and an overwhelming tiredness swept through him. His hands shook. ‘Thank you, that would be helpful,’ he said weakly before hanging up.
He had tried to put on a brave face. He wanted to leave and go home there and then. But he did not want to draw attention to his premature departure. He had bought a couple of bottles of champagne, somehow managed to make some small talk, before quietly slipping outside and heading for home.
Sitting on his hard cell bed, his thoughts remained on what had happened to Callum and whether his death might be linked to the bombing. Too many things just didn’t make sense: why was he driving a Mercedes and not a Porsche? Why had he been driving straight to Amsterdam via Belgium and not towards Germany and its Autobahns? What had Callum gleaned in Luxembourg? How many people were involved? Or could it all just be a coincidence? Rafi’s thoughts went round in circles. Eventually he came to the realisation that he simply didn’t have enough information to fully understand what was going on.
His thoughts were interrupted by the cell door swinging open. The ugly guard stood a few feet away, scowling. Moments later Rafi was back in the austere interview room, facing his two interrogators.
Andy started the ball rolling. ‘We are concerned that there will be further bombings. We have to stop further carnage and bloodshed. Our patience only goes so far. If you don’t cooperate, we have a good mind to lend you to the Yanks.’
‘I’m not sure that I’ve any more information that will help you,’ replied Rafi.
Andy erupted like a Roman candle. ‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re playing at? You drag things out, waste our time and refuse to talk. Lives are at stake!’
The grilling went on for what seemed like hours. Rafi answered the very few questions he could.
The interrogators knew they were getting nowhere and their behaviour was becoming ever more intimidating.
Rafi was yo-yoing from the interview room to the cell, never given chance to settle and rest. If he tried to sleep then, as soon as he had dropped off, he would be hauled back in front of his two interrogators. He had lost all sense of time – he guessed he had been questioned for all of Saturday and it was now probably Sunday. He wasn’t sure though. He was mentally drained and his recently acquired bruises ached like hell, as did his eyes. His head throbbed from the lack of sleep and the relentless stress. It dawned on him that he would not be able to withstand the verbal assault for much longer.