And Thereby Hangs a Tale

12. Politically Correct

‘Never judge a book by its cover,’ Arnold’s mother always used to tell him.

Despite this piece of sage advice, Arnold took against the man the moment he set eyes on him. The bank had taught him to be cautious when it came to dealing with potential customers. You can have nine successes out of ten and then one failure can ruin your balance sheet, as Arnold had found to his cost soon after he had joined the bank; he was still convinced that was why his promotion had been held up for so long.

Arnold Pennyworthy — he was fed up with being told by all and sundry, That’s an appropriate name for a banker — had been deputy manager of the Vauxhall branch of the bank for the past ten years, but had recently been offered the chance to move to Bury St Edmunds as branch manager. Bury St Edmunds might have been one of the bank’s smaller branches, but Arnold felt that if he could make a fist of it, he still had one more promotion left in him. In any case, he couldn’t wait to get out of London, which seemed to him to have been over-run by foreigners who had changed the whole character of the city.

When Arnold’s wife had left him without giving a reason — at least, that’s what he told his mother — he had moved into Arcadia Mansions, a large block of flats which he liked to refer to as apartments. The rent was extortionate, but at least there was a hall porter. ‘It gives the right impression whenever anyone visits me,’ Arnold told his mother. Not that he had many visitors since his wife had walked out on him. Arcadia Mansions also had the advantage of being within walking distance of the bank, so the extra money he paid out on rent he clawed back on bus and train fares. The only real disadvantage was that the Victoria line ran directly below the building, so the only time you could be guaranteed any peace was between twelve-thirty and five-thirty in the morning.

The first time Arnold caught sight of his new neighbour was when they found themselves sharing a lift down to the ground floor. Arnold waited for him to speak, but he didn’t even say good morning. Arnold wondered if the man even spoke English. He stood back to take a closer look at the most recent arrival. The man was a little shorter than Arnold, around five feet seven inches, solidly built but not overweight, with a square jaw and what Arnold later described to his mother as soulless eyes. His skin was dark, but not black, so Arnold couldn’t be sure where he was from. The unkempt beard reminded him of another of his mother’s homilies: ‘Never trust a man with a beard. He’s probably hiding something.’

Arnold decided to have a word with the porter. Dennis was the fount of all knowledge when it came to what took place in Arcadia Mansions and was certain to know all about the man. When the lift doors opened, Arnold stood back to allow the new resident to get out first. He waited until the man had left the building before strolling across to join Dennis at the reception desk.

‘What do we know about him?’ asked Arnold, nodding at the man as he disappeared into a black cab.

‘Not a lot,’ admitted Dennis. ‘He’s taken a short-term lease and says he won’t be with us for long. But he did warn me that he’d be having visitors from time to time.’

‘I don’t like the sound of that,’ said Arnold. ‘Any idea where he comes from, or what he does for a living?’

‘Not a clue,’ said Dennis. ‘But he certainly didn’t get that tan holidaying in the South of France.’

‘That’s for sure,’ said Arnold, laughing. ‘Don’t misunderstand me, Dennis, I’m not prejudiced. I’ve always liked Mr Zebari from the other end of my corridor. Keeps himself to himself, always respectful.’

‘That’s true,’ said Dennis. ‘But then you must remember that Mr Zebari is a radiologist.’ Not that he was altogether sure what a radiologist was.

‘Well, I must get a move on,’ said Arnold. ‘Can’t afford to be late for work. Now that I’m going to be manager, I have to set an example to the junior staff. Keep your ear to the ground, Dennis,’ he added, touching the side of his nose with a forefinger. ‘Although our masters have decided it’s not politically correct, I have to tell you I don’t like the look of him.’

The porter gave a slight nod as Arnold pushed through the swing doors and headed off in the direction of the bank.

The next time Arnold came across the new resident was a few days later; he was returning from work when he saw him chatting to a young man dressed from head to toe in leather and sitting astride a motorbike. The moment the two of them spotted Arnold, the young man pulled down his visor, revved up and shot away. Arnold hurried into the building, relieved to find Dennis sitting behind the reception desk.

‘Those two look a bit dodgy to me,’ said Arnold.

‘Not half as dodgy as some of the other young men who’ve been visiting him at all hours of the night and day. There are times when I can’t be sure if this is Albert Embankment or the Khyber Pass.’

‘I know what you mean,’ said Arnold as the lift door opened and Mr Zebari stepped out.

‘Good evening, Mr Zebari,’ said Dennis with a smile. ‘On night duty again?’

‘Afraid so, Dennis. No rest for the wicked when you work for the NHS,’ he added as he left the building.

‘A real gentleman, that Mr Zebari,’ said Dennis. ‘Sent my wife a bunch of flowers on her birthday.’

It was a couple of weeks later, after arriving home late from work, that Arnold spotted the motorbike again. It was parked up against the railing but there was no sign of its owner. Arnold walked into the building, to find a couple of young men chatting loudly in a tongue he didn’t recognize. They headed towards the lift, so he held back, as he had no desire to join them.

Dennis waited until the lift door had closed before saying, ‘No prizes for guessing who they’re visiting. God knows what they get up to behind closed doors.’

‘I have my suspicions,’ said Arnold, ‘but I’m not going to say anything until I’ve got proof.’

When he got out of the lift at the fourth floor, Arnold could hear raised voices coming from the apartment opposite his. Noticing that the door was slightly ajar, he slowed down and casually glanced inside.

A man was lying flat on his back on the floor, his arms and legs pinned down by the two men he’d seen getting into the lift, while the youth he’d spotted on the motorbike was holding a kitchen knife above the man’s head. All around the room were large blown-up photographs of the devastation caused by the 7/7 bus and tube bombings that had recently appeared on the front pages of every national newspaper. The moment the youth spotted Arnold staring at him, he walked quickly across the room and closed the door.

For a moment, Arnold just stood there shaking, unsure what to do next. Should he run downstairs and tell Dennis what he’d witnessed, or make a dash for the relative safety of his apartment and call the police?

Hearing what sounded like a roar of laughter coming from inside the apartment, Arnold ran across to his front door, fumbled for his keys and attempted to push his office Yale into the lock, while continually looking over his shoulder. When he eventually found the right key, he was so nervous he tried to force it in upside down and ended up dropping it on the floor. He picked it up and managed to open the door with his third attempt.

Once Arnold was inside he quickly double-bolted the door and put the safety chain in place, although he still didn’t feel safe. When he’d caught his breath, he dragged the largest chair in the room across the floor and rammed it up against the door, then collapsed into it, trembling, as he tried to think what he should do next.

He thought again about phoning the police, but then became fearful that the man would discover who had reported him and the kitchen knife would end up hovering above his head. And when the police raided the building, a fight might break out in the corridor. How many innocent people would become involved? Mr Zebari would surely open his door to find out what was going on and come face to face with the terrorists. It was a risk Arnold wasn’t willing to take.

Several minutes passed, and as he could hear nothing happening outside, Arnold nipped across to the sideboard and shakily poured himself a large whisky. He drank it down in two gulps, then poured himself another before slumping back into the chair, clinging on to the bottle. He took another gulp of whisky, more than he usually drank in a week, but his heart was still pounding. He sat there, his shirt saturated with sweat, terrified to move, until the sun had disappeared behind the highest building. He took another swig, and then another, until he finally passed out.

Arnold couldn’t be sure how many hours he’d slept, but he woke with a start when the clickety-clack of the first tube could be heard rumbling below him. He saw the empty bottle of whisky lying on the floor by his feet and tried to sober up. In the cold, clear light of morning, he knew exactly what his mother would expect him to do.

When the time came for him to leave for work, he tentatively pulled the heavy chair back a few inches, then placed an ear against the door. Were the men standing outside in the corridor waiting for him to come out? He unlocked the door without making the slightest sound and slowly removed the safety chain. He waited for some time before gingerly opening the door an inch, and then another inch, before peeping into the corridor. He was greeted by silence and no sign of anyone.

Arnold took off his shoes, stepped out into the corridor, closed the door quietly behind him and tiptoed slowly towards the lift, never once taking his eyes off the door on the other side of the corridor. There was no sound coming from inside, and he wondered if they’d panicked and made a run for it. He jabbed at the lift button several times, and it seemed to take forever before the doors finally slid open. He jumped inside and pressed G, but even when the doors had closed, he didn’t feel safe. By the time the lift reached the ground floor he’d put his shoes back on and tied the laces. When the doors slid open he ran out of the building, not even looking in Dennis’s direction when he said, ‘Good morning.’ He didn’t stop running until he had reached the bank. Arnold opened the front door with the correct key and quickly stepped inside, setting off the alarm. It was the first time he’d had to turn it off.

Arnold went straight to the lavatory, and when he looked at himself in the mirror two bleary red eyes in an unshaven face stared back at him. He tidied himself up as best he could before creeping into his office. He hoped that when the staff arrived, not too many of them would notice that he hadn’t shaved and was wearing the same clothes as he had worn the day before.

He sat at his desk and began to write down everything he’d witnessed during the past month, going into particular detail when it came to what had taken place the night before. Once he’d finished, he sat staring into space for some time before he picked up the phone on his desk and dialled 999.

‘Emergency services, which service do you require?’ said a cool voice.

‘Police please,’ said Arnold, trying not to sound nervous. He heard a click, then another voice came on the line and said, ‘Police service. What is the nature of your emergency?’

Arnold looked down at the pad in front of him, and read out the statement he had just prepared. ‘My name is Arnold Pennyworthy. I need to speak to a senior police officer, as I have some important information concerning the possibility of a serious crime having been committed, in which terrorists may be involved.’

Another click, another voice, this time with a name. ‘Control room. Inspector Newhouse.’

Arnold read his statement a second time, word for word.

‘Could you be a little more specific, sir?’ the inspector asked. Once Arnold had told him the details, the officer said, ‘Hold on, please, sir. I’m going to put you through to a colleague at Scotland Yard.’

Another line, another voice, another name. ‘Sergeant Roberts speaking. How can I help?’

Arnold repeated his prepared statement a third time.

‘I think it may be wise, sir, if you didn’t say too much more over the phone,’ suggested Roberts. ‘I’d prefer to come and see you so we can discuss it in person.’

Arnold didn’t realize that this suggestion was used to get rid of crank callers and those who simply wanted to waste police time.

‘That’s fine by me,’ he said, ‘but I’d prefer it if you visited me at the bank rather than my apartment.’

‘I quite understand, sir. I’ll be with you as soon as I can.’

‘But you don’t know the address.’

‘We know your address, sir,’ said Sergeant Roberts without explanation.

Arnold didn’t leave his office that morning, even to carry out his usual check on the tellers. Instead, he busied himself opening the post and checking his emails. There were several phone messages he should have responded to, but they could wait until the man from Scotland Yard had come and gone.

Arnold was pacing up and down in his office when there was a tap on the door.

‘There’s a Sergeant Roberts to see you,’ said his surprised-looking secretary. ‘Says he has an appointment.’

‘Show him in, Diane,’ said Arnold, ‘and make sure that we’re not disturbed.’

Arnold’s secretary stood aside to allow a tall, smartly dressed young man to enter the office. She closed the door behind him.

The sergeant introduced himself and the two men shook hands before he produced his warrant card.

‘Would you like a tea or coffee, Sergeant Roberts?’ Arnold asked after he had carefully checked the card.

‘No, thank you, sir,’ the sergeant replied, sitting down opposite Arnold and opening a notebook.

‘Where shall I start?’ said Arnold.

‘Why don’t you take me through exactly what you saw taking place, Mr Pennyworthy. Don’t spare me any details, however irrelevant you may consider they are.’

Arnold checked through his notes once again. He began by describing in great detail everything he’d seen during the past month, ending with a full account of what he’d witnessed in the flat opposite the previous night. When he finally came to the end, he poured himself a glass of water.

‘What’s your neighbour’s name?’ was the sergeant’s first question.

‘Good heavens,’ said Arnold, ‘I have no idea. But I can tell you that he’s recently moved into the block, and has taken a short lease.’

‘Which floor are you on, Mr Pennyworthy?’

‘The fourth.’

‘Thank you. That will be more than enough to be going on with,’ said the sergeant, closing his notebook.

‘So what happens next?’ asked Arnold.

‘We’ll put a surveillance team on the building immediately, keep an eye on the suspect for a few days and try to find out what he’s up to. It could all be completely innocent, of course, but should we come up with anything, Mr Pennyworthy, be assured we’ll keep you informed.’

‘I hope it won’t turn out to be a waste of your time,’ said Arnold, suddenly feeling a little foolish.

‘We’ll find out soon enough,’ said the young detective with a smile. ‘Let me assure you, Mr Pennyworthy, I only wish there were more members of the public who were as vigilant. It would make my job much easier. Good luck with your new job,’ he added as he stood to leave.

As soon as the policeman had left, Arnold picked up the phone on his desk and called his mother. ‘Can I come and stay with you for a few days, Mother, before I move to Bury St Edmunds?’

‘Yes, of course, dear,’ she replied. ‘Nothing wrong, I hope?’

‘Nothing for you to worry about, Mother.’

Once Arnold had moved to Bury St Edmunds, running the branch took up most of his time, and as the weeks passed and he heard nothing from Sergeant Roberts, the incident at Arcadia Mansions began to fade in his memory.

From time to time he read reports in the Daily Telegraph about police raids on terrorist cells in Leeds, Birmingham and Bradford. He always studied the photos of the suspects being led away by the police, and on one occasion he could have sworn that...

Arnold had just finished interviewing a customer about a mortgage application when the phone on his desk rang.

‘There’s a Sergeant Roberts on the line,’ said his secretary.

‘Just give me a moment,’ said Arnold. He could feel his heart racing as he bustled the customer out of his office and closed the door behind him.

‘Good morning, Sergeant.’

‘Good morning, sir,’ came back a voice he recognized. ‘I was wondering if you were planning to be in London during the next few days. It’s just that I’d like to bring you up to date on what our surveillance team has come up with.’ Arnold began to thumb through his diary. ‘If that’s not convenient,’ the sergeant continued, ‘I’d be happy to visit you in Bury St Edmunds.’

‘No, no,’ said Arnold, ‘I’ll be coming up to London on Friday evening. It’s my sister’s birthday, and I’m taking her to see The Sound of Music at the London Palladium.’

‘Good, then I wonder if you could spare the time to pop in to Scotland Yard, say around five o’clock, because I know that Commander Harrison is very keen to have a word with you.’

‘That will be fine,’ said Arnold, looking down at the blank page. He made a note in his diary, not that he was likely to forget.

‘Good,’ said the sergeant. ‘I’ll meet you in reception at five o’clock on Friday.’

As the week went by, Arnold couldn’t help thinking that he was looking forward to meeting Commander Harrison more than he was to seeing The Sound of Music.

Arnold left the office just after lunch on Friday, explaining to his secretary that he had an important appointment in London. When he arrived at Liverpool Street station he went straight to the taxi rank, as he didn’t want to be late for the meeting.

The taxi swung into the forecourt of Scotland Yard a few minutes before five, and Arnold was pleased to see Sergeant Roberts standing by the reception desk waiting for him.

‘Good to see you again, Mr Pennyworthy,’ said Roberts. They shook hands, and the sergeant guided Arnold towards a bank of lifts. He chatted about The Sound of Music, which he’d taken his wife to see at Christmas, while they waited for the lift, and about the parlous state of English rugby while they were in the lift. He hadn’t even hinted why Commander Harrison wanted to see Arnold by the time the lift doors opened on the sixth floor.

Roberts led Arnold to a door at the far end of the corridor, which displayed the name Commander Mark Harrison OBE. He gave a gentle tap, waited for a moment, then opened the door and walked in.

The commander immediately rose from behind his desk and gave Arnold a warm smile before shaking hands with him. ‘Good to meet you at last,’ he said. ‘Can I offer you a drink?’

‘No, thank you,’ said Arnold, now even more desperate to discover why such a senior officer wanted to see him.

‘I know you’re going to the theatre this evening, Mr Penny-worthy, so I’ll get straight to the point,’ said the commander, waving Arnold to a seat. ‘I must explain from the outset,’ he continued, ‘that the case I’m going to discuss with you is due to begin at the Old Bailey next week, so there will be some details I’m not at liberty to disclose, although I feel sure I can rely on your complete discretion, Mr Pennyworthy.’

‘I fully understand,’ said Arnold.

‘Let me begin by saying how grateful we all are at the Yard for the information you supplied. I think I can say without exaggeration that you have been responsible for uncovering one of the most active terrorist cells in this country. In fact, it’s hard to quantify just how many lives you may have been responsible for saving.’

‘I did no more than what I considered to be my duty,’ said Arnold.

‘You did far more, believe me,’ said the commander. ‘Because of the information you supplied, Mr Pennyworthy, we’ve been able to arrest fifteen terrorist suspects, one of whom, the man who rented the flat on your corridor, was undoubtedly the cell chief. At a house in Birmingham which he led us to, we discovered explosive devices, bomb-making equipment and detailed plans of buildings, along with the names of high-profile individuals the group planned to target, including a member of the royal family. Frankly, Mr Pennyworthy, you contacted us just in time.’

Arnold beamed as the commander continued, ‘I only wish we could make your contribution public, but you will understand the restrictions we’re under in such cases, not least when it comes to your own safety.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Arnold, trying not to sound disappointed.

‘But when you read the press reports of the case next week, you can take some satisfaction from knowing the role you played in bringing this group of violent criminals to justice.’

‘Couldn’t agree more, sir,’ chipped in the sergeant.

Arnold didn’t know what to say.

‘I won’t keep you any longer, Mr Pennyworthy,’ said the commander. ‘I wouldn’t want you to be late for the theatre. But be assured that the Yard will remain in your debt, and my door will always be open.’

Arnold bowed his head and tried to look suitably humble.

The commander shook hands with Arnold and thanked him once again, before Sergeant Roberts escorted him out of the room. ‘And may I add my personal thanks, Mr Pennyworthy,’ Roberts said as they walked down the corridor, ‘because on the first of the month, I’m to be promoted to Inspector.’

‘Many congratulations,’ said Arnold. ‘Well deserved, I feel sure.’

Arnold walked out of the building and made his way down Whitehall. He held his head high as he strolled past Downing Street, wondering how much he could tell his sister about the meeting that had just taken place. He checked his watch and decided to hail another taxi. After all, it was a special day.

‘Where to, guv?’ asked the taxi driver.

‘The Palladium,’ said Arnold as he climbed into the back seat.

Arnold thought about his meeting with the commander as the taxi made its slow progress into the West End. He played the conversation over and over again in his mind as if he was pressing the repeat button on a tape recorder. The cab came to a halt on Great Marlborough Street, a police cordon preventing them from going any further.

‘What’s the problem?’ Arnold asked the driver.

‘There must be a member of the royal family or some foreign head of state going to the show tonight. I’m afraid you’ll have to walk the last hundred yards.’

‘Not a problem,’ said Arnold, handing over a ten-pound note and not waiting for any change.

He made his way past the large crowd of people pressing against the safety barriers hoping to discover who was causing so much interest. When he reached the theatre entrance, his ticket was carefully checked before he was allowed to enter the foyer. He walked up the wide red-carpeted steps and looked around for his sister. A few moments later he spotted a programme being waved energetically. Janet was never late for anything.

Arnold gave his sister a kiss on both cheeks, wished her a happy birthday and asked her if she’d like a glass of champagne before the curtain went up.

‘Certainly not,’ said Janet. ‘Let’s go and find our seats. A member of the royal family is expected in tonight, and I want to see who it is.’

‘Please take your seats,’ said a voice over the tannoy. ‘The performance will begin in five minutes.’

‘I’ve been looking forward to this for weeks,’ said Janet as an usher tore their tickets in half and said, ‘Halfway down on the left-hand side.’

‘What wonderful seats, Arnold,’ said Janet when they reached row G.

‘Well, you’re not forty every day,’ said Arnold, giving her arm a squeeze.

‘I wish,’ she said as they made their way to the centre of the row, trying not to tread on anyone’s toes but causing several people to have to stand.

‘I thought we’d go to Cipriani afterwards,’ said Arnold once they’d settled down.

‘Isn’t that a bit extravagant?’ said Janet.

‘Not on my sister’s birthday, it isn’t. In any case, it’s turned out to be a rather special day for me as well.’

‘And why’s that?’ asked Janet as she handed him a programme. ‘Not another promotion?’

‘No, more important than that—’ began Arnold as people around him began to rise and start clapping as the Princess Royal entered the royal box. She gave the audience a wave before taking her seat. Janet waved back.

‘She’s always been one of my favourites,’ Janet said as the audience sat back down. ‘But do tell me, Arnold, why it’s such a special day for you?’

‘Well, it all began when he moved into our block—’

‘Who are you talking about?’ interrupted Janet as the lights went down.

‘I must confess, I had my doubts about him from the start...’ Arnold whispered as the conductor raised his baton. ‘I’ll tell you all about it over dinner,’ he added as the orchestra began to play a melody most of the audience knew off by heart.

Arnold enjoyed the first half of the musical, and when the curtain fell for the interval, it was clear from the rapturous applause that he was not alone.

Several members of the audience rose and peered up at the royal box, where Princess Anne was chatting to her husband. Suddenly the door at the back of the box opened, and a man whose face Arnold could never forget walked in, dressed in a scruffy dinner jacket, one hand in his pocket.

‘Oh my God,’ said Arnold, ‘it’s him!’

‘It’s who?’ said Janet, her eyes not straying from the royal box.

‘The man I was telling you about,’ said Arnold. ‘He’s a terrorist, and somehow he’s managed to escape and get into the royal box.’ Arnold didn’t wait to hear his sister’s next question. He knew his duty, and quickly squeezed past the people in his row, not caring whose toes he trod on while ignoring a barrage of angry protests. When he reached the aisle he began to run towards the exit, pushing aside anyone who got in his way. Once he was in the foyer he quickly looked around then charged up the sweeping staircase that led to the dress circle, while the majority of theatregoers were making their way slowly down to the crush bar on the ground floor. Several people stopped and stared at the ill-mannered man going so rudely against the tide. Arnold ignored them, as well as several caustic comments addressed directly at him. At the top of the stairs he set off in the direction of the royal box, but when he came to a red rope barrier, two burly police officers stepped forward and blocked his path.

‘Can I help you, sir?’ one of them asked politely.

‘There’s a dangerous terrorist in the royal box,’ shouted Arnold. ‘The princess’s life is in danger.’

‘Please calm down, sir,’ said the officer. ‘The only guest in the royal box this evening is Professor Naresh Khan, the distinguished American orthopaedic surgeon who is over here to give a series of lectures on the problems he encountered following 9/11.’

‘Yes, that’s him,’ said Arnold. ‘He may be posing as a famous surgeon, but I assure you, he’s an escaped terrorist.’

‘Why don’t you show this gentleman back to his seat,’ said the officer, turning to his colleague.

‘And why don’t you call Commander Harrison at Scotland Yard,’ said Arnold. ‘He’ll confirm my story. My name is Arnold Pennyworthy.’

The two officers looked at each other for a moment, and then more closely at Arnold. The senior officer dialled a number on his mobile phone.

‘Put me through to the Yard.’ A few moments passed, too long for Arnold, who was becoming more frantic by the second.

‘I need to speak to Commander Harrison, urgently,’ the officer said.

After what seemed an eternity to Arnold, the commander came on the line.

‘Good evening, sir, my name is Bolton, Royal Protection team, currently on duty at the London Palladium. A member of the public — a Mr Pennyworthy — is convinced there’s a terrorist in the royal box, and he says you’ll confirm his story.’ Arnold hoped they would still be in time to save her life. ‘I’ll put him on, sir.’ The officer handed the phone to Arnold, who tried to remain calm.

‘That man we discussed this afternoon, Commander, he must have escaped, because I’ve just seen him in the royal box.’

‘I can assure you, Mr Pennyworthy,’ said the commander calmly, ‘that’s not possible. The man we spoke about this afternoon is locked up in a high-security prison from which he’s unlikely to be released in your lifetime.’

‘But I’ve just seen him in the royal box!’ shouted Arnold desperately. ‘You must tell your men to arrest him before it’s too late.’

‘I don’t know whom you’ve just seen in the royal box, sir,’ said the commander, ‘but I can assure you that it isn’t Mr Zebari.’