‘Who is that guy?’ Edie said.
When I walked into MIR-1 first thing Monday morning, she was watching the latest images from Borodino Street.
As they cut to the view from the helicopter, you could clearly see the same young man addressing the crowd at the end of the street. His audience was bigger today. Their faces were turned away from the house, the flowers, the mourners and the epic makeshift shrine to Alice Stone.
‘He has to be harmless,’ Edie said. ‘Doesn’t he?’
‘There are enough cops on that street to pick him up if he’s a crank,’ I said.
We watched the scene in silence. The tiny back garden was stacked high with torn-out floorboards. A skip was piled with plaster and bricks from the walls and ceilings.
‘The search teams have hollowed it out,’ I said.
‘And still no grenades,’ Edie said. ‘What happened to them, Max?’
TDC Adams answered the phone.
‘IPCC waiting for you,’ she told me.
I had clocked the IPCC investigators as soon as I had walked into West End Central and I know that they had clocked me. They were an odd couple – an overweight man in his fifties, looking crumpled in a stained cheap suit and worn out before the day had got started, and a well-groomed, gym-fit young woman with long blond hair, her eyes sharp behind large black glasses. I had made no attempt to introduce myself.
The Independent Police Complaints Commission is the police watchdog with the power to decide if a serving cop who makes a split-second decision is a hero or a criminal.
They were only doing their job. But they were not my friends.
My Police Federation rep was waiting for me outside the interview room. He was one of those teak-hard old Londoners they don’t seem to make any more, a tough, scrupulously neat little man who had been some kind of Mod in his youth – there was a care taken in his clothes, his hair, the way he carried himself.
‘DC Wolfe? Andy Vine from the PFEW.’
The Police Federation of England and Wales.
We shook hands.
‘Don’t lose your rag in there,’ Vine advised me.
The two IPCC investigators were already inside. The rumpled old boy looked as though he was ready for a nap. The young blonde took brisk charge.
‘For the tape, can you identify yourself?’ she said.
‘DC Max Wolfe of Homicide and Serious Crime Command, West End Central.’
‘I’m Marilyn Flynn of the Independent Police Complaints Commission,’ she said. ‘Also present is Gordon Hunt of the IPCC.’ The old boy stirred at the mention of his name. ‘DC Wolfe has the appropriate Police Federation representation,’ Flynn noted.
Then she opened her file.
‘This is an investigation into the two firing officers on Operation Tolstoy,’ she said. ‘What was your role in the raid on Borodino Street, DC Wolfe?’
‘I was there for background briefing and to ID the targets. My department had interviewed a CI who had sold two grenades to the Khan brothers.’
‘Allegedly,’ said Flynn.
I looked at her.
I may have raised an eyebrow.
‘Allegedly sold two Cetinka hand grenades,’ she said, nodding her head for emphasis. ‘But they didn’t exist, did they? These grenades. They turned out to be a figment of your CI’s imagination.’
‘A cache of Cetinka hand grenades certainly existed because after the initial conversation with our CI we recovered two of them buried in a flower bed in a park in South London. Those were the two grenades that we photographed in West End Central. We had been informed that there were more grenades out there and that two of them had found their way to Asad and Adnan Khan. But it’s true that the Search Team have so far been unable to find them at the address in Borodino Street.’ I gave her a smile. ‘That hardly means that they do not exist.’
‘You don’t think your CI may have lied to increase his value to you?’
‘That is always a possibility with a Criminal Informant,’ I said. ‘But the Khan brothers were known returnees. These men were battle-hardened jihadists.’ I took a deep breath. And then another. My rep was right – losing my rag would be bad news for everyone. ‘We now believe that it was Asad and Adnan Khan who brought down that Air Ambulance helicopter on Lake Meadows shopping centre. They wanted to take as many innocent lives as possible. So it wasn’t any kind of stretch to believe they were in the market for a couple of Croatian hand grenades.’
‘But that has never been proved in a court of law, has it, DC Wolfe?’ Flynn said. ‘Their involvement in the Lake Meadows attack?’
‘The house on Borodino Street was packed with drones. It was a drone that brought down that helicopter.’ I felt my blood rising. ‘The Khan brothers boasted on social media about their exploits in Syria. Torturing non-believers, burning prisoners to death, beheading aid workers – the usual heroics.’
I felt my Federation rep stir nervously by my side.
I smiled again at Marilyn Flynn, letting some of the anger seep out of me.
‘But you’re right,’ I agreed. ‘They died before they could be brought to any kind of justice. So – never proven in a court of law. That’s correct.’
She nodded, opened her laptop and hit a key.
Photographs of Jackson Rose and Raymond Vann appeared on the flat TV screen beside her. They were standard Met ID photos. But today they looked like police mugshots of guilty men. Even their call signs – Jackson was C7 and Vann was C3 – looked like jail numbers.
‘For the tape, can you identify the two firing officers, DC Wolfe?’
‘C7 is DC Jackson Rose and C3 is DC Raymond Vann.’
‘Had you met either of the two firing officers before Operation Tolstoy?’
‘I had never seen DC Vann before. But I grew up with Jackson – DC Rose. He’s my oldest friend.’
She stared at me, letting it sink in, exchanging a look with the old boy, Gordon Hunt, before proceeding.
‘You were on board the jump-off van with the entry team, correct?
‘Yes.’
‘What happened when you arrived in Borodino Street?’
‘DS Alice Stone was murdered.’
A flicker of irritation on Flynn’s face.
‘Before the death of DS Stone.’
‘The entry team were about to leave the van when the front door opened and someone wearing a niqab came out. One of those long black robes with a face veil.’
‘We know what a niqab is, DC Wolfe.’
‘I identified the figure as Asad Khan.’
‘How long did the ID take you?’ Flynn said.
‘I don’t know. A second? Five seconds? I really don’t know.’
Time moves differently when you are in the presence of violent death, I think. It stretches. A moment can feel like a thousand years.
But sharing this thought seems pointless.
‘Carry on,’ Flynn said briskly.
‘I made a positive identification of the target. DS Stone left the jump-off van and attempted to detain Adnan Khan. He was in possession of an assault rifle. He fired multiple shots at DS Stone. They proved fatal.’
‘Is this the weapon?’
A profile of a fifty-year-old Heckler & Koch G3 appeared on the screen with the strapline EVIDENCE and a serial number.
‘Yes.’
‘Then C7 – DC Rose – shot Mr Khan,’ Flynn said.
‘No,’ I said. ‘The SFOs left the jump-off van. C7 – DC Rose – issued the appropriate verbal warning to Mr Khan. “Armed police! Drop the weapon and show me your hands!” DC Rose – C7 – followed procedure to the letter. And then I saw C7 fire two shots at Mr Khan. They both struck the target.’
A small smile on Flynn’s glossy lips. ‘You can remember his exact words? In all that confusion and gunfire? You have a remarkable memory.’
‘Thank you very much.’
I felt my rep moving in his seat.
‘Why did you enter the house?’ Flynn said.
‘I was there to ID the two targets. That was my role. We had only identified one target. I believed that the other brother, Adnan Khan, was in the house. And there was the possibility of other armed KAs being on the premises. We had no idea how big the cell was.’
‘KAs?’
‘Known associates. As you are aware, there is an ongoing investigation by CTU to see if the Khan brothers were part of a wider network of murdering nutjobs.’
‘What happened inside the house?’
‘I saw drones. Boxes of drones everywhere. That’s when I knew these gentlemen had been responsible for bringing down that Air Ambulance helicopter.’
Flynn shook her elegant head.
‘Let’s forgo the speculation and stick to the facts, shall we, DC Wolfe?’
‘Then these are the facts. I entered the house on Borodino Street and in the kitchen I discovered Ahmed Khan, the father of the Khan brothers, Azza Khan, their mother, and their teenage granddaughter Layla, whose father died fighting for Islamic State in Syria. They were all clearly terrified. I instructed them to leave the house as quickly as possible with their hands in the air.’
I raised my hands to demonstrate. Palms facing outwards, showing they held nothing.
Gordon Hunt stirred.
‘Was that because you were afraid that some trigger-happy SFO might take a potshot at them when they came out,’ he said, smiling.
It was not a question.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I was afraid they could die in crossfire. My colleagues from SC&O19 conducted themselves with total professionalism throughout Operation Tolstoy.’ I paused at a memory. ‘Seconds after Asad Khan had shot and killed DS Stone, SFOs who loved her were giving Asad Khan first aid in an attempt to save his life.’ I shook my head with genuine wonder. ‘I never questioned their professionalism. I was simply trying to ensure there was no unnecessary loss of life.’
Gordon Hunt seemed wide-awake now.
‘And after Mr and Mrs Khan had fled the building with their granddaughter you went down to the basement and witnessed C3 – DC Vann – discharge his weapon into Adnan Khan.’
Again, it is not a question.
‘No,’ I said. ‘That’s not what happened.’
I am not going to rat him out.
But I am not going to lie for him.
I felt the sweat trickle down my back for the first time today.
Because I suddenly understood that I was attempting to do the impossible.
How far can you bend the truth until it stops being the truth?
‘I heard a single shot in the basement,’ I said slowly. ‘I then left the kitchen and went down into the basement. C3 had already discharged his weapon. I assumed that Khan had made some move for a weapon or that C3 – DC Vann – believed he had made such a move. I identified the target, Adnan Khan. He was dead.’
They let that sit there for a while. They made a point of not looking at each other. The perspiration slid further down my spine.
My Federation rep was perfectly still.
‘Just to be clear,’ Hunt said. ‘You were not in the basement when Khan was killed?’
‘No.’
Hunt consulted his notes.
‘Because C3’s testimony puts you down there.’ He paused. ‘In the basement, DC Wolfe, when the fatal shot was fired, DC Vann insists you were there and you witnessed Adnan Khan on his feet and making a sudden movement, as if to retrieve a weapon – although no weapons were found in that basement. You can’t corroborate his version of events?’
‘No.’
‘Is he lying?’
I felt my mouth tighten.
‘Our colleagues in SCO19 are under enormous – unimaginable – pressure,’ I said. ‘C3 is not lying – he is mistaken. Did you ever hear a shot fired in anger?’ I said. ‘Sir?’
‘Are you trying to insult me, DC Wolfe?’
‘I’m trying to see if you understand what sustained automatic gunfire does to everything – your hearing, your blood pressure, your balance, your heart rate, your perception of time. All of it. Gunfire is strange – it just seems to crowd out the rest of the world. It takes over. It dominates everything. So I don’t think DC Vann is lying to you, sir,’ I repeated for the tape. ‘I think that he is mistaken.’
‘Maybe you’re the one who is mistaken, DC Wolfe. Is that also a possibility?’
‘I am quite certain that I was not in that basement until after Mr Khan died.’
‘Did Mr Khan get what was coming to him, DC Wolfe?’ Hunt said.
‘I don’t think terrorists can reasonably expect to die of old age in their beds, sir.’
‘Did you and C3 speak to each other?’ Flynn said. ‘When you finally arrived in the basement?’
‘I believe I said his name. His first name. Raymond. I do not recall C3 – DC Vann – speaking to me.’
‘But you said that you had never met before,’ Hunt said. ‘So how did you know his name?’
I told them the truth without thinking about it.
‘Because DS Stone spoke to him when we were on our way to Borodino Street. She said, “You OK, Raymond?” So I knew his name was Raymond.’
‘C3 says that Khan was on his feet and making a sudden move for what he assumed to be a weapon,’ Hunt said. ‘And this is why we are struggling to believe his version of events.’
Flynn touched her keyboard and two line-drawings of a little generic man appeared on the screen, face on and sideways. The sideways drawing has a line entering the drawn man around the middle of his chest and leaving around the bottom of his back.
‘That’s the post-mortem trajectory of the gunshot that killed Mr Khan,’ Hunt said. ‘Ballistics inform us that a single shot entered Mr Khan’s heart and exited from the base of his spine. And as you can see, the autopsy agrees with this theory.’
‘How do you explain it?’ Flynn said. ‘If Mr Khan was standing and making an abrupt movement for a weapon? Why did the gunshot enter his chest on entry and exit just above his buttocks? If he was standing, it doesn’t make sense, does it?’
‘I am not attempting to explain it,’ I said.
The IPCC investigators took a moment.
‘Mr Khan was on his knees when he was shot, wasn’t he, DC Wolfe?’ Hunt said. ‘DC Vann was pumped up, understandably terrified, full of anger about what had just happened to his team leader on the street. He had an unarmed man on his knees and he executed him. Isn’t that what happened, DC Wolfe?’
‘I wouldn’t know, Mr Hunt.’
‘Because you were not in the basement when it happened,’ he said.
And it wasn’t a question.
Because they had no more questions for me.
I rode down to the ground floor with my Federation rep.
‘Heroes before breakfast,’ he said. ‘Murderers before mid-morning tea. Who’d be a shot, eh?’
We shook hands.
‘Not me,’ I said.
Back in MIR-1, TDC Adams had a message for me.
‘Paddington Green called,’ she said. ‘You should call DCI Flashman.’
I returned Flashman’s call.
‘You want Ahmed Khan, Wolfe?’ he said. ‘You can have him.’
‘You’re not charging him?’
‘You were right,’ Flashman said. ‘He’s as simple as he looks. As far as we can make out, all his known associates are other bus drivers. And get this, Wolfe: the old man says he wants to go home.’ Flashman was chuckling with amusement. ‘To the house on Borodino Street!’
I looked up at the TV screen. I saw the crowds, the flowers for Alice Stone, the house that had been torn apart. I could not imagine anyone ever living in that place again.
‘So Ahmed Khan’s not running an al-Qaeda cell from the number 73 bus, Flashman? That’s a turn-up for the book.’
I heard his hot breath.
‘The man had three sons,’ Flashman said. ‘Every one of them was a murdering jihadist bastard. He’s bloody lucky to be getting out so soon. Accept nothing, believe no one, check everything. How did you miss that lecture at Hendon, Wolfe? Were you walking that little dog of yours?’
‘If you smell guilt on him, then why are you slinging him out, Flashman?’
The police can hold someone for twenty-four hours before we either have to charge them with a crime or set them free. The only exception is if someone is suspected of terrorism. Then we can hold them for fourteen days.
‘We need the cell,’ Flashman said. ‘This old bus driver is a cell-blocker for the really bad boys. We will let him sweat for a few more days – that should be long enough for the generous British state to find him and his family a safe house – and then we will chuck him out. Dig out the welcome mat, Wolfe.’
Edie Wren and Joy Adams were staring at me as I hung up.
‘They’re releasing Ahmed Khan without charge,’ I said.
‘And what are we meant to do with him?’ Edie said.
I looked again at the crowds and the flowers and the cops on Borodino Street.
‘Keep him alive,’ I said.