Sleeper Cell

16

The attack on Faran Jaafar had been witnessed by over two dozen people. Only one of them called the police. Amid the jeers of S52 thugs and guarded by a police escort, the paramedics loaded the unconscious and bleeding man onto a gurney and drove him to the nearby Royal London Hospital. There his expensive clothes were cut away, his few possessions bagged and tagged, and he was taken for emergency cranial surgery.

They established his identity very quickly. Although he carried no wallet or identity papers, a call to the first person listed in his phone's directory gave them a name, and that quickly led to an address. The information, however, was not considered of immediate importance, so it was filed while the evening's main event was still number one priority.

Only when the storm broke at eleven thirty and the riots began to quieten down was the incident formally logged.

It took until 3am before a connection was made between the injured man's address in Vallance Road and the shootings at the same building.

Leila Reid arrived at the Royal London at 3.30. Jaafar was sedated but his injuries had not proved to be life-threatening. A shattered orbital socket and severe concussion were the worst of his problems, and he was expected to make a full recovery, even if he would never quite regain his perfectly symmetrical looks.

Two armed officers stood at the door to Faran's private room. Leila flashed her ID at them and let herself in.

A nurse was adjusting the drip that fed sedatives into the young Kuwaiti's arm. One of his eyes was heavily bandaged.

'Can he talk?' Leila said.

'Who are you?'

'Counter-terrorism. I need to speak to Mr Jaafar. Now.'

'Whatever he's done, while he's in our care he's a patient. He's been through a lot tonight.'

'He's not a suspect. Please, I need to speak to him, alone.'

'You've got five minutes.'

The nurse pressed the call button into Jaafar's hand then left. Leila approached the bed.

'Mr Jaafar,' she said. The man grunted quietly but did not open his one exposed eye.

'Look at me, Mr Jaafar. I need you to answer some questions.'

His eye opened a little and he turned his head fractionally in her direction.

'Good,' Leila said. 'I need to ask you about your neighbours. The women who live in the flat below you.'

'Why?' he said. 'They were...' His eye drifted closed again.

'Mr Jaafar. Look at me. Look at me.' He did, slowly. 'I know you're in pain, but you're not going to die, so stay with me, OK? The women who lived below you...'

'They are nothing to do with this,' he mumbled.

'We're investigating your attack, Mr Jaafar. The police have examined your mobile phone and found the film of the run-up to it. We'll catch the people who did this to you. I'm here about another matter. What do you know of the women who lived downstairs?'

'Are they all right? I stopped by on my way...' He fell silent.

'Three of them are dead,' Leila said.

'What?' His one good eye opened properly. Now she had his full attention.

'They were shot tonight,' she said.

'You think I had something to do with it?'

'We know you didn't shoot them. Did you have anything else to do with it?'