Secret Asset

29

Thelma Dawnton was just about to leave for the badminton club when a man who said he was from the letting agency phoned to ask about the house next door. She was in a hurry to get to her doubles match so, unusually for her, the conversation was brief.

She played doubles in the mixed competition, alongside Evan Dewhart, unattached but so dull that even Trevor, Thelma’s husband, couldn’t summon up any jealousy. They lost in the final set, against a young married couple—the wife had played for the county. Afterwards Thelma and Evan bought the drinks, and Thelma stayed longer than usual—pleased to be socialising with someone who had played at county level.

When she got home Trevor was in front of the telly. As his programme ended, she mentioned the call from the letting agency earlier that evening.

“What did they want?” her husband asked grumpily.

“He was asking about the house next door. He said they were trying to get in touch with the person who’d signed the lease. He wanted to know if he might be living there now.”

“Why’s he asking you? Why couldn’t he ask the lot next door direct?”

“That’s just it. When I said there were three Asians next door, he sounded surprised. I explained they had only been there a couple of weeks, but he said they shouldn’t have been there at all. He was very serious. Said it might be a police matter, so please could I not mention our conversation to any of them until he’d had time to call the authorities.”

When Trevor looked sceptical, she said defensively, “That’s what he said. Anyway, I said I wasn’t likely to let them know, being as we hadn’t ever exchanged much more than a nod.” Encouraged by the rare interest on her husband’s part, Thelma asked, “Do you think something funny’s going on over there?” She jerked her head in the direction of their neighbours. “Could we have terrorists living next door to us or something?”

“Not any more,” said Trevor, chewing on the last segment of his nan bread. “Those three Pakis moved out tonight. I saw them packing up their car when I got home. If you ask me, they’ve cleared out for good.”

“Oh dear,” said Thelma, “I’d better ring the letting agent in the morning and tell him they’ve gone.”

Trevor snorted. “I should think he’ll be pleased to see the back of them. I am.”

But Thelma never rang. At five-thirty in the morning she was wakened by the sound of someone knocking on a door. At first she thought it was her door, but as her head cleared and she listened intently over the mild snores of Trevor beside her, she realised it was coming from the house next door. She got up and looked out of the window, curious about who would come so early to an empty house.

What she saw was astonishing.

There was a group of men at her neighbour’s front door. Three of them wore helmets and held rifles of the kind she’d seen policemen carrying at Heathrow. One of them, in a policeman’s uniform, was pounding on the door, shouting. “Open up,” he roared. “The house is surrounded. At the count of ten, we will force our way in if you do not answer the door. One… two…”

From her vantage point, Thelma could see into the strip of garden at the back of the house, and she saw three other men, their weapons held at the ready.

“Three… four… five…”

In the street lined up were three police cars, a white police van and two Range Rovers.

“Six… seven… eight…”

The police had placed two lines of tape across the street and Thelma saw that at one of them a man in shorts and T-shirt stood, arguing with two constables. It was Dermot Simpson, who lived three doors down, now on the wrong side of the cordon. He was an inveterate early morning jogger and wanted to get back to his house.

“Nine… ten.” There was a pause, and when she looked down at the front door she saw that two other men had appeared, carrying what looked to be a large metal lipstick. Swinging it between them, they suddenly launched it at the front door, and she heard a splintering noise followed by a thud, and then the men disappeared from view into the house.

“Jesus Christ!” It was Trevor, who came to the window and stood next to her in his pyjamas. “Didn’t you tell them they’ve all gone?”

“How could I?” she asked plaintively. “You only told me last night. I was going to call the agency when they opened this morning.”

Trevor snorted and pointed at the congregation of armed policemen on the street in front of the neighbouring house. “Do they look like letting agents to you?” He suddenly opened the window, leaned out and bellowed, “Officer, they’ve all gone!”

A man with a megaphone detached himself from the tense group. Pointing it right at Trevor and Thelma, his voice was astonishingly clear in the morning air. “STAY INSIDE! MOVE BACK FROM THE WINDOWS. I REPEAT: MOVE BACK FROM THE WINDOWS.”

They retreated at once and, grabbing some clothes, went into the spare bedroom on the far side of the house from their invaded neighbours. “Stay against this wall,” commanded Trevor, and Thelma nodded weakly. “They may have a bomb.” And they huddled together, sitting with their backs to the wall, for a quarter of an hour, until there was more knocking. This time it was their door.

“I’d better answer it,” said Trevor.

“Do you have to?” said Thelma, frightened at the prospect of being left alone. “What if it’s someone from next door? You know, one of the terrorists.” By now, there was no doubt in her mind about the status of her former neighbours.

“It’s not very likely, now is it, Thelma?” said her husband, rising and moving towards the spare-bedroom door. “Not with half the police force outside.”

“I’m coming with you,” declared Thelma, getting up and moving past her husband so quickly that she got downstairs first and opened up the front door.

There was a man standing there, wearing a parka. Behind him stood a policeman, cradling an automatic weapon. “Mrs. Dawnton?” the man in the parka said. “We spoke last night.”

“You’re the gentleman who rang?” He didn’t look like a letting agent, especially with that policeman behind him.

Dave nodded impatiently. He was not in the mood for social niceties. “You told me there were three Asian men staying next door.” His tone was mildly accusing.

“That’s right,” said Thelma.

“There were, Officer,” said Trevor, insinuating himself between Thelma and the man, in what was either old-fashioned gallantry or bruised pride that he was not the Dawnton being addressed. “But they left last night.”

“After we spoke,” explained Thelma anxiously. “You see, I was going to ring the agency this morning—”

Dave cut her off. “What time did they go?” he asked Trevor.

“Half-seven, quarter to eight.”

“Did they have a car?”

Trevor nodded. “I think it was a Golf. They didn’t have much gear. Couple of bags, that’s all I could see.”

A policeman came up to Dave and whispered in his ear. “Excuse me,” said Dave. “I’d like to come back. Say in half an hour?”

“I don’t know,” said Trevor, “I’ve got work to go to.”

“I’d be very grateful if you went in late today,” said Dave. “I’d be happy to ring your boss if you like, and explain we need to talk to you first.”

Trevor looked slightly miffed by the offer. “I’ll tell him. No need for you to speak to him.”

“Right then,” said Dave. “See you a little later on.”

It was almost ninety minutes before he came back. In the meantime the Dawntons had watched the dogs go in—an Alsatian and two spaniels, their tails wagging wildly. Out of sight of the watchers, upstairs in the house, all three dogs had become very excited when they sniffed the carpeted floor of the wardrobe in one of the three small bedrooms. When white-suited forensics officers disinterred an almost infinitesimal residue from the worn carpet that had triggered this vociferous reaction, their conclusion was that fertiliser had been stored in the house. Stored recently, in fact.

The euphoria of the forensics team after this discovery was not shared by Dave Armstrong, who drove back to London late that night in an unusual state of alarm. It was not simply that he knew he and his colleagues could now proceed in the certainty that the three young men they sought were bombers. That was bad enough, especially since they had no idea where they’d gone, or what they planned to blow up.

But even more worrying was the fact that they had left in a rush—according to Trevor Dawnton, “they looked like they were two steps in front of the bailiffs.” It was true Rashid’s sister had told Rashid the police were looking for him, but that would not have triggered such a panicked departure, since after all, the sister had no idea of his whereabouts. Dave had spent another hour with the Dawntons, long enough to persuade himself that it was simply inconceivable that either of the couple would have tipped off the three suspects after he had rung from the letting agency to inquire about them.

Covering all the bases, Dave also rang Mr. Penbury at home, catching him just after he’d walked the dog. He had confirmed, making noises of outraged denial, that he had made no contact with anyone to do with the rented house on Somerset Drive. So as he drove along the M4 going east past Slough, Dave Armstrong was pretty confident that neither the letting agency nor the neighbours were responsible for tipping off the suspects. So why then had they fled in the nick of time? Was it possibly just a coincidence? Had the trio planned such a move, just one of many, from safe house to safe house, up until the date they struck?

Perhaps, but Dave Armstrong wasn’t paid to believe in coincidence, and he was certain he was right to proceed on the assumption that the three men they were looking for had been tipped off. Ruling out Penbury, the Dawntons and Rashid’s sister left him with possible sources for the tip-off which did nothing but worry him. It was this worry which led him to ring and leave a message on Charles Wetherby’s voicemail, asking to see him first thing in the morning.