‘OK, but we keep the interview as short as possible,’ Kate replied.
Over the phone she heard John shouting to the duty officer at the reception desk.
‘Oh no! Get those naming journalists away from here! Get the area outside the station cordoned off and keep the bloody press away – at least fifty bloody yards from the front door!’
‘Yes, sir,’ came the prompt reply.
‘Sod it! We need this like a hole in the head,’ said John irritably over the phone to Kate. ‘You and Rafi – meet me in the third floor interview room. I’ll bring the junior minister up.’
‘This had better not take long,’ remarked Kate to Rafi, who sensed her nervousness.
In the stairwell she stopped him, put her hand on his head and roughed up his hair.
‘We can’t have you looking kempt.’ She pulled his rugby shirt out of the back of his tracksuit trousers and looked at him. ‘You’d better take your shoes off.’
‘Seriously? My socks stink!’
‘Don’t worry; it’s all part of the illusion.’ Kate looked him over. ‘Yep, you’ll do. You look awful, and yes, your socks reek!’ To his surprise, she leant forward and planted an affectionate kiss on his cheek. ‘No doubt you’ll be worth knowing after a wash and brush up!’
Kate and Rafi were the first to arrive at the interview room. They sat down and waited. Minutes later John and the politician arrived.
‘Sorry for the delay,’ apologised John. ‘The junior minister had to wash his hands.’
The junior minister, flanked by John and Kate, sat opposite Rafi.
‘I went to see you at Paddington Green this morning only to find you weren’t there. I was redirected to MI5 headquarters – most irregular – and they said I’d have to come here for the full story. I’ve wasted much valuable time and am in no mood to be messed around. Mr Khan, what I need to know is why you aren’t helping the police with their search for the terrorists,’ said the frustrated junior minister.
Rafi looked blankly across the table and remained silent.
‘Thanks to you we had more terrorist attacks last night. Your resistance and reluctance to help are setting a very bad example to the Muslim community. I am advised that a growing number of extremist youngsters are becoming your followers. This is extremely bad for the country. I am here to give you an ultimatum: either you cooperate or I will throw the book at you and your family, do you hear? What do you have to say?’
Rafi looked at the junior minister: at his pale blue doublecuffed shirt, the light pink tie, the immaculate grey suit and the perfectly combed hair. If things weren’t so serious he would have laughed at his pomposity and the bizarre nature of the interview.
‘Are you threatening me and my family?’
‘Damn right I am! Your type should know what they’re up against when they tangle with the Government. You’re outside the laws that protect decent and innocent Englishmen. You should be sent home.’
Rafi’s temper was rising – valuable time was being wasted. ‘I am dark-skinned and a Muslim. Why does that make me and my family undesirable? Answer me that and I’ll help you with your questions.’
The minister was silent for a moment. ‘It is your damn fundamentalism that’s the problem – only permitting one God.’ He paused. ‘And you debase all other religions and criminalise the pursuit of wealth and personal advancement. Your brand of fundamentalism is not only myopic, but it is detrimental to a modern society. You’re all the same: out to undermine our democracy. We will stop you, you know. Your approach to life will be stamped out and the likes of you will be removed from this country.’
Rafi sensed the junior minister was spouting forth a well-rehearsed monologue. ‘Is that your view or the view of others?’ he said trying to conceal his anger.
‘My boss, a senior minister in the Home Office, agrees with me. Fanatical Muslims have no place here. Once our backs are turned, all you want to do is to bring down our democracy.’
Rafi wanted out. Time was ticking away and the idiot on the other side of the table was being absurd.
‘Sir,’ said Rafi, ‘I’m innocent until proved guilty. Find the evidence and then try me.’
The junior minister lost his cool. ‘Of course you’re bloody guilty – we all know that! The CCTV footage alone will convict you. I’ve the press outside waiting for me. I need something to tell them which will make a good story to deflect the coverage of all the horrors you’ve caused. Will you cooperate? Or shall I personally make your life and your family’s not worth living?’
Rafi sat there, too furious to answer.
Without warning, John stood up. ‘Sir, you’re not making any progress. Mr Khan is obviously not going to help you.’
‘What the devil are you talking about, Inspector? Don’t you know who I am? I’m your boss’s boss! I won’t take orders from anyone, let alone a junior policeman!’
John kept his cool.
There was a knock at the door. The telephonist burst in.
‘DI Adams, I’ve an urgent message for you.’ She passed the piece of paper across the table to her.
The junior minister grabbed it. ‘I’ll see that.’
Kate looked at her. ‘What did it say?’
‘Rick someone asked for you to call him urgently.’
‘Oh shit!’ said Kate and dashed for the door.
The junior minister was taken aback. He shouted after her. ‘You can’t leave until I’ve finished with you. Come back here this instant!’
Kate was long gone.
John stood up and looked piercingly at the junior minister. ‘I strongly suggest you stay here,’ he said authoritatively. ‘The constable outside and I will escort Mr Khan back to his cell – in case he does any more damage. You should see the mess he made of the three guards at Paddington Green – nearly killed one of them. He’s a third Dan karate black belt. See his right wrist? He felled a nineteen-stone guard and fractured his jaw.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’ squealed the ruffled junior minister. At this Rafi stood up and started to move towards him.
‘No, get back!’ shouted John. ‘He isn’t worth it.’
‘Get him out of here!’ shouted the squirming junior minister.
‘Yes, sir. I’ll take Mr Kahn to the cells and return to discuss how we can give your press friends a good story.’
‘Do that and don’t be long.’
John and Rafi left. John locked the door, turned to the police constable and handed him the key.
‘Under no circumstances let him out until the commissioner or I get here. Understood? Whatever the minister says, ignore him!’
‘Yes sir. But what about Mr Khan here? Will you be safe with him?’
‘Of course.’
‘But, what about his karate skills?’
‘You shouldn’t believe everything you hear!’
‘Sorry, sir.’
‘Rafi, go and help Kate; I must contact the commissioner before the minister gets on his mobile and does something even more crass.’
Rafi raced back to the office. Kate was on the phone to Rick; she switched on the speaker.
‘I’ve had another go at interviewing Mr Wesson,’ said Rick. ‘By accident, Wesson overheard Basel Talal and his property director discussing a building in Stratford, which they said would be untraceable. Basel described it as the jewel in the crown and added that its location was one where they’d make a killing. You’re looking for an industrial property in Stratford, East London; it’s undergoing refurbishment.’
‘Thanks,’ said Kate, ‘You’re a star!’
She hung up and rushed out of the room. Rafi was about to follow her when her phone rang. It was the switchboard.
‘There’s an urgent message from Roger Harewood; he wanted to check that you got the fax.’
Rafi hung up, rushed over to the fax machine, scooped up the sheet of paper sitting there and ran to the Ops Room, oblivious to all his aches and pains – and his lack of shoes. He briefly looked at the contents of the fax as he ran. It read: URGENT – I tried to phone. My notes are sketchy. The cold store is a large industrial building located between Billingsgate and the A12 in East London. It is being refurbished. Hope this helps. – Roger Harewood.