CHAPTER 47
Back in Park Road, in the attic above Faisal World Travel, Kevin counted down the seconds on his phone and, at exactly midnight, phoned Gordon and then Walid. The arrangement was to meet outside the back door.
Gordon was the first to arrive. Kevin heard the latch on the alleyway door click, then he watched a dark figure walk towards him. The only light came from the street light on Midland Road behind Gordon’s workshop, and Kevin could barely see him. He had a hat on not dissimilar to Roger’s, a pair of dark jeans, and a dark sweater. Around his neck hung a small bag. “You wearing shoes, Kevin?” he whispered.
“Yeh.”
“Take them off. Leave them here. Then put on these gloves.”
Kevin did as he was told and dragged on the tight rubber gloves. Roger removed his own shoes. “Phone fully charged?
“Yeh.”
“That’s the window with the blinds. Is it?”
“Yeh.”
“Or is it shutters, Kevin? You know the difference? Old houses around here have old wooden shutters, not new-fangled Venetian blinds.”
“Yeh, it’s shutters.”
“They look good to you? No cracks for light to shine through from inside?”
“Not checked, Gord. Sorry.”
“Where’s Wally?”
“Coming. There he is.”
Walid crept towards them; his eyes were wide and staring like a nervous rabbit.
“Shoes off, Wally. Gloves on. I thought I told you to wear dark clothing.”
“My work overalls are the blackest thing I had, Gord.”
“It’s the way you work, Wally. Too darned clumsy. I can smell the grease and oil from here. I just hope that Khan’s sense of smell is not up to detecting Valvoline Synthetic Automotive Bearing grease.”
“Sorry, Gord.”
“Not so loud. Right then, lead the way, Kevin.”
Kevin opened the back door, and they slipped inside.
“I can’t see anything,” Walid whispered. Gordon took out a torch, wrapped something over the end to dim the light, and switched it on. A murky light showed the door on the left.
“Hold the torch.”
Gordon played with the digital lock, listened to sounds from inside it, and pressed buttons. Then he turned a knob and gave a thumbs up. Next was the padlock. “Torch.” This time, he produced a small tool from his bag, inserted it in the lock, moved it around, and then pressed it home. The lock sprang, the door opened, and Gordon, leading the way, shone the torch around inside.
The room was smaller than Kevin had imagined. A single light bulb hung from a brown water stain in the ceiling. It was clearly from the leaking bathroom up above. Set against the wall to their right was a wooden table with a computer tower and screen that looked unused in months. A tangle of plugs and cables lay alongside, and around it were piles of ancient tourism brochures: Sun and Sand 2013 and Tulips from Amsterdam 2002. In the far corner stood a tall cupboard with its doors open and empty shelves. On the left, beneath the shuttered window was an untidy gathering of cleaning equipment—buckets, mops, and cleaning fluids. Kevin sniffed in disappointment. Walid shook his head.
But Gordon, still shining the torch around, walked towards the cupboard where faint semi-circular scuff marks were etched into the bare floorboards. “Hold the torch.” He took hold of the side of the cupboard, pulled it, and there, hidden behind, was another door. “All these Victorian houses on Park Road have cellars,” he whispered.
He tried the door handle, but it was locked, so he produced his tool from his bag once more, inserted it, made a few adjustments, pushed it home, and tuned the handle. It opened to a flight of stone stairs with a light switch on the right. He edged down, followed by Kevin and Walid. Another switch and two fluorescent lights hanging from above flickered into action.
The cellar was three times the size of the room upstairs. It stretched beneath the shop perhaps as far as Park Road. And it was full. There were cupboards, shelves, and a long wooden work bench on one side. On the other side was a desk with a computer, a printer, and more shelves piled with brown folders.
“Well now,” Gordon said, “you could run a big business from down here.”
Kevin and Walid, standing on the bottom step, stared. “What do we do now, Gord?”
“Creep around in our socks, don’t touch anything, maybe open a few drawers and cupboards, quick peak inside, and then we’ll have a think. Anyone been here today, Kevin?”
“I’ve been out all day, but this computer’s been left on.” He touched the keyboard, and the screen lit up.
“I told you not to touch anything, Kevin.”
“Sorry, Gord. It’s opened in word documents, Gord. You want me to check files? Look at pictures?”
“Why not. We’ve got all night.”
Walid and Gordon watched as Kevin clicked on one folder at random. Then, “Oh my giddy aunt,” Gordon said. “Is that what I think it is?”
“It’s women, Gord. Girls with no clothes. It’s porn. White girls, brown girls, all sorts of—”
“Don’t look, Wally. You’re far too young, and we haven’t got all night. Try another file. My eyes are hurting already.”
“Passport photos like Cass sent. Hundreds. Thousands. Not just men. Women as well.”
“Jackpot, Kevin. Try some more.”
“Property. Pictures of houses and shops with For Sale and To Rent signs.”
“Another.”
Gordon bent to look.
“Blank payslips and bank receipts. Move over, Kevin. Let me see. Letter heads from companies. See this one? From a business called Fatima Fashions, Riverside Industrial Park, Leicester ‘To whom it may concern. This is to confirm that Miss Surraya Chaudry is employed by Fatima Fashions as Sales Manager on a salary of £29,500 per annum.’”
“So Khan runs a fashion business?” Walid said.
“Or a business that provides legitimate-looking pieces of paper for five hundred pounds a time. Don’t be naïve, Wally.”
“What’s this? Raja’s Store, Baker Street? Hussein’s Money Exchange, Park Road? Does Khan own these as well? What happened to Raja? Where’s Hussein gone? It’s their accounts—fresh too, not like those tourism brochures. Here we go. Lists of money in and money out. Nice balance shown here. Fancy a share of £235,000, Kevin? Could fix your car if nothing else. And bank accounts, dozens. Print outs. Personal accounts. Faysal Bank, Habib Bank, Silk Bank, Bank of Punjab, Bank of Khyber—this would take some going through.”
Gordon stood up and pushed his woolly hat back from his forehead. “Phew! Close it, Kevin. I’m nervous. It could still, of course, be quite legitimate, but it smacks of something. It smells. No. It stinks. On the other hand, boys, we mustn’t jump to conclusions. Even the porn could be Khan’s preference to watching endless repeats of Simon Cowell. We’ll come back to it. Let’s check around some more.”
It was in a cupboard that Walid then found the blank Turkish, Iraqi, Pakistani, and Afghan passports—neat stacks held together with lengths of white ribbon. On the shelf above was a neat bundle of blank Greek and Albanian passports. “Don’t touch anything, Wally. Leave then just as they are. Kevin, take some photos on your phone.”
Kevin found an envelope containing small green numbered certificates with the words “Given leave to remain in the United Kingdom for an indefinite period.” He showed Gordon.
“Visas, Kevin. No need to apply to the Home Office. Just ask Khan.”
Gordon found a box containing hundreds of rubber stamps. He pulled one out at random and pressed it into the palm of his gloved hand. It showed a tourist visa for Canada. Kevin snapped Gordon’s hand and the entire box of stamps.
Walid slid open a drawer and found a pile of Certificates of Naturalisation issued by the Home Office. Kevin snapped that as well.
But it was Gordon who, poking around in a box in the corner, came across the pieces of metal tubing, wires, and batteries. He called Kevin over. “Recognise anything, Kevin?”
Kevin stared. “Detonators.”
“Not yet detonators,” Gordon said, “but components. Take some photos.”
Walid was in another corner. He’d pulled back a plastic sheet to reveal two heavy-looking plastic sacks. “Gord, look at this.”
Gordon stared and then shook his head. “Tell me, Wally, why would someone living in the backstreets in the middle of a city need two fifty-kilo sacks of aluminium nitrate fertiliser?”
“To make bombs, Gord. I’ve read about it.”
Kevin stood back and snapped the whole room. Then they switched the lights off, went upstairs, locked the cellar door, and pulled the cupboard back into place. A few minutes later, they were inside Gordon’s garage. Gordon called Roger, who was asleep in the truck. Roger called Ritchie, who was almost asleep in the Asher & Asher office in London. Ritchie roused Colin, who was sound asleep beneath his desk. He crawled out.
“What’s the time, Ritchie?”
“I don’t know, but it’s nearly morning, Roger.”
“Have you found the man of many pseudonyms?”
“No. But we’ve got news from Roger that comes from Gordon.” He told Colin what they’d found in Khan’s room and cellar.
“You see, Ritchie? Untrained but as good as any professional. There’s a chance for you yet.”
Ritchie was too tired to be amused. “Kevin took photos,” he said. “I’ve just seen them. I also checked on Fatima Fashions. It doesn’t exist.”
“Well, there’s a surprise.”
“Roger wants to know what we do next.”
Colin Asher stroked his stubbled chin. Ritchie knew he’d barely left the office since the weekend. His shirt was hanging out, his trousers were crumpled, and his socks were somewhere beneath his desk. The waste bin was so full that empty sandwich packs were now scattered around his bare feet. “If Mark is now in Bangkok or not flying, I’ll talk to him and get his view,” he said.
“Should we now contact law enforcement?”
“No. Definitely not. Unless Khan discovers he’s had a break in and starts to clear everything out. Just ask Kevin to report any unusual activity.”
“Why delay reporting it?”
“Because other things are happening, that’s why. This young fellow, Cass, needs to be extracted somehow. I’m still not sure how, but first, we need to locate him. And if you think I’ve just been sitting here eating Pret a Manger take-outs and staring at this screen all night, you’re mistaken.”
“But I just saw you crawl out from beneath the desk.”
“I was locating a missing file, Ritchie.”
“Did you find it? And am I allowed to know what else is going on?”
“Of course. Sit.”
“There’s no place to bloody sit, Colin. This office is a tip.”
Asher looked round. “True,” he said, apparently realising the mess not just of the room but himself. “What’s Else doing?”
“Helping me. She’s been going nonstop for thirteen hours also.”
“Right. Change of plan. Tell her to go home for a few hours for a wash and brush up or whatever it is women do. You do the same. I’ll tidy up here and go over to the Cumberland Hotel for a quick shower. I’ve been waiting for someone to fix my hot water at home for weeks, but you know what plumbers are like.”
“Is that the guy from Hall’s heating engineers who calls every morning asking if you’re free?”
“Probably. Never mind. Reconvene at 9:00 a.m. by which time I’ll know more about . . .”
Ritchie frowned and waited. “Know more about what, Colin?”
“I’ll tell you at 9:00 a.m. I can’t think straight at present.”