http://www.kennethjacob.com/?p=382
THE CUTTING EDGE
12th October 2012
KIDNAPPED IN LONDON
It has been with some irritation that I have read over the past months about cases being investigated by the Metropolitan Police where the alleged crimes were committed many years ago; the most recent of course being the abhorrent allegations against Jimmy Savile.
I have been trying to report a crime for over a year now, first with Cambridgeshire Police and then with the Met. Both told me that it
On Friday 23rd January 2009 I met an acquaintance of mine, John Martin, at the French House in Dean Street, Soho, London. We had a glass of wine and then went on to Gerry’s Club, also in Dean Street, a few yards away. This was about 18.00 hrs.
At Gerry’s we had 2 – 3 glasses of wine together and talked for about an hour. John suddenly said he had to leave, and did so promptly. I got up to leave shortly thereafter.
There were but three people other than myself in the club at the time, John Martin, Phil the barman and a third person whom I did not know, sitting at the far end of the bar.
On reaching the exit of the club, I felt distinctly drowsy. I opened the door to the street and briefly caught a glimpse of two people, men I believe, standing in the door well of the building. They wore hoodies. From then on I have no recollection until I woke up in a cab. Some 60 -75 minutes must have expired, as I made a call to my son as soon as I was on the train, having made a call not long before leaving Gerry’s.
I came to sitting in a black cab, feeling very drowsy. I looked around me and believed the cab was driving down Tottenham Court Road. I noticed a squad car behind the cab. I realized my black leather shoulder bag and a plastic bag I had had with me all day were missing. I asked the cab driver where we were going; he told me we were heading for King’s Cross station. I asked him where my bags were. He became abusive and told me I had brought no bags with me. He drew the cab up. I saw that the police car had also drawn up some yards behind us. The cab driver got out of the cab, as did I. Two policemen had already got out of their car and walked towards me. The one on my right pointed a hand at me and said ‘Fuck off Sir’. Both then turned around and walked back to their vehicle. This in itself is extraordinary behaviour. I got back into the cab and continued the journey.
I took the next train from King’s Cross to Peterborough and then on to my home in Bourne, Lincolnshire. I admittedly made a fundamental mistake here, I should have gone on to a hospital and had a blood test done.
This raises the question as to how did the cab driver knew where to take me? No cab driver takes in a fare in a comatose condition, so I must presume he was instructed to do so by a third party. I had no visiting cards on my person, so whoever instructed the cabbie to take me to King’s Cross had had access to my bags, which certainly had more than one reference to my address. My return train ticket may also have offered a clue, but this I always put in a side pocket in my black leather shoulder bag.
On the morning of Monday 26th January I phoned Westminster Council and spoke with a Martin Sola. I asked for CCTV footage of the street outside the club to be inspected. I knew there was a CCTV camera only yards away, high up on a building. I was told two days later that the camera had been panning and had missed me exiting the club. I had also asked them for footage of Mr Martin leaving the premises, but here also the camera would appear to have been facing the wrong direction.
On Thursday 29th January 2009 I received a call from the manager of a Chinese restaurant on the corner of Gerrard Place and Gerrard Street, in Chinatown, Soho. He asked whether I was Kenneth Jacob. I confirmed I was and he told me he had two bags that belonged to me and that I was welcome to collect them. I did so the next day. He told me I had been there for a meal on the Friday the week before and had left the bags under a table. He was keen, almost too keen, to show me the table at which I had been sitting. I told the man in no uncertain terms that I had not been to the restaurant that evening, indeed I had never been to the restaurant. It is not the sort of place I would go to, having my regular establishments I go to when occasionally eating out in Chinatown.
The two bags were returned to me with the contents, as far as I could tell, intact. I should point out that no personal effects were taken from my person during the time I was unconscious. I had some £200 in cash on me, as also a wallet with cards and a mobile phone.
I made some enquiries of a good friend of mine, David Pritchard-Jones (now Sir David). He has an acquaintance, Richard Moore, who sits on various committees in Lambeth, for example the Community-Police Consultative Group for Lambeth. I took him out for a meal. He was at first eager to help, outraged at what had happened to me. He later cooled down and was unavailable for contact. He did however let it be known through David that he had spoken with a former constable whose beat was this part of Soho and it turns out that the restaurant manager often ‘assisted’ the police.
Why on earth anyone should wish to drug me and what I can only describe as ‘kidnap’ me, Heaven only knows. It was suggested by another acquaintance that the reason may have been the following.
I carried with me on that day a number of personal paper, as also a manuscript book. The papers, ie those in the carrier bag, I had collected earlier that day from Landmark Chambers and related to property matters. The manuscript book was a journal written by my grandfather in the period 1915-1917. Unfortunately he was in the habit of writing his journals partly in English, partly in Arabic, which he spoke, read and wrote fluently. He had been, among other things, political agent in Aden, Yemen and elsewhere, in short, in intelligence. It was known to a number of people that I was looking for someone to translate the Arabic content of the journal into English. While some of the loose letter in the journal were marked secret, most secret etc, none of its contents could, given the time lapse, have been construed to be of a sensitive nature. I had in fact hoped to pop into the London School of Oriental Languages that day to see whether they could assist in translation, but did not have the time to do so.
I had also been invited to visit Pakistan, more specifically Jacobabad, where I have a number of acquaintances. I had applied for and received a visa to do so some months earlier. In the event, I did not go. I was advised in a phone call with the Deputy High Commissioner in Karachi not to do so, as my safety could not be guaranteed.
Tags: david pritchard jones, gerry's club soho, john martin, london, richard moore
KIDNAPPED IN LONDON
It has been with some irritation that I have read over the past months about cases being investigated by the Metropolitan Police where the alleged crimes were committed many years ago; the most recent of course being the abhorrent allegations against Jimmy Savile.
I have been trying to report a crime for over a year now, first with Cambridgeshire Police and then with the Met. Both told me that it
was too late to report the crime. Really? That does not tally with the above. I waited two years because I know, and knew then, that the Met are institutionally corrupt. That is an opinion shared by many and goes back to the 1950s; the number of police officers now facing prosecution bear out what I say.
At no time were either Cambridgeshire Police or the Met prepared to look at the statement of events I had prepared. When giving them some of the information verbally, I was told by a sergeant in the Met being drugged was a minor incident, not worth investigating. We will see about that.
I will succeed in my endeavours, rest assured of that, and want those responsible brought to justice. I have a new angle to this affair which I may bring a result. Read the following and please share it.
At no time were either Cambridgeshire Police or the Met prepared to look at the statement of events I had prepared. When giving them some of the information verbally, I was told by a sergeant in the Met being drugged was a minor incident, not worth investigating. We will see about that.
I will succeed in my endeavours, rest assured of that, and want those responsible brought to justice. I have a new angle to this affair which I may bring a result. Read the following and please share it.
At Gerry’s we had 2 – 3 glasses of wine together and talked for about an hour. John suddenly said he had to leave, and did so promptly. I got up to leave shortly thereafter.
There were but three people other than myself in the club at the time, John Martin, Phil the barman and a third person whom I did not know, sitting at the far end of the bar.
On reaching the exit of the club, I felt distinctly drowsy. I opened the door to the street and briefly caught a glimpse of two people, men I believe, standing in the door well of the building. They wore hoodies. From then on I have no recollection until I woke up in a cab. Some 60 -75 minutes must have expired, as I made a call to my son as soon as I was on the train, having made a call not long before leaving Gerry’s.
I came to sitting in a black cab, feeling very drowsy. I looked around me and believed the cab was driving down Tottenham Court Road. I noticed a squad car behind the cab. I realized my black leather shoulder bag and a plastic bag I had had with me all day were missing. I asked the cab driver where we were going; he told me we were heading for King’s Cross station. I asked him where my bags were. He became abusive and told me I had brought no bags with me. He drew the cab up. I saw that the police car had also drawn up some yards behind us. The cab driver got out of the cab, as did I. Two policemen had already got out of their car and walked towards me. The one on my right pointed a hand at me and said ‘Fuck off Sir’. Both then turned around and walked back to their vehicle. This in itself is extraordinary behaviour. I got back into the cab and continued the journey.
I took the next train from King’s Cross to Peterborough and then on to my home in Bourne, Lincolnshire. I admittedly made a fundamental mistake here, I should have gone on to a hospital and had a blood test done.
This raises the question as to how did the cab driver knew where to take me? No cab driver takes in a fare in a comatose condition, so I must presume he was instructed to do so by a third party. I had no visiting cards on my person, so whoever instructed the cabbie to take me to King’s Cross had had access to my bags, which certainly had more than one reference to my address. My return train ticket may also have offered a clue, but this I always put in a side pocket in my black leather shoulder bag.
On the morning of Monday 26th January I phoned Westminster Council and spoke with a Martin Sola. I asked for CCTV footage of the street outside the club to be inspected. I knew there was a CCTV camera only yards away, high up on a building. I was told two days later that the camera had been panning and had missed me exiting the club. I had also asked them for footage of Mr Martin leaving the premises, but here also the camera would appear to have been facing the wrong direction.
On Thursday 29th January 2009 I received a call from the manager of a Chinese restaurant on the corner of Gerrard Place and Gerrard Street, in Chinatown, Soho. He asked whether I was Kenneth Jacob. I confirmed I was and he told me he had two bags that belonged to me and that I was welcome to collect them. I did so the next day. He told me I had been there for a meal on the Friday the week before and had left the bags under a table. He was keen, almost too keen, to show me the table at which I had been sitting. I told the man in no uncertain terms that I had not been to the restaurant that evening, indeed I had never been to the restaurant. It is not the sort of place I would go to, having my regular establishments I go to when occasionally eating out in Chinatown.
The two bags were returned to me with the contents, as far as I could tell, intact. I should point out that no personal effects were taken from my person during the time I was unconscious. I had some £200 in cash on me, as also a wallet with cards and a mobile phone.
I made some enquiries of a good friend of mine, David Pritchard-Jones (now Sir David). He has an acquaintance, Richard Moore, who sits on various committees in Lambeth, for example the Community-Police Consultative Group for Lambeth. I took him out for a meal. He was at first eager to help, outraged at what had happened to me. He later cooled down and was unavailable for contact. He did however let it be known through David that he had spoken with a former constable whose beat was this part of Soho and it turns out that the restaurant manager often ‘assisted’ the police.
Why on earth anyone should wish to drug me and what I can only describe as ‘kidnap’ me, Heaven only knows. It was suggested by another acquaintance that the reason may have been the following.
I carried with me on that day a number of personal paper, as also a manuscript book. The papers, ie those in the carrier bag, I had collected earlier that day from Landmark Chambers and related to property matters. The manuscript book was a journal written by my grandfather in the period 1915-1917. Unfortunately he was in the habit of writing his journals partly in English, partly in Arabic, which he spoke, read and wrote fluently. He had been, among other things, political agent in Aden, Yemen and elsewhere, in short, in intelligence. It was known to a number of people that I was looking for someone to translate the Arabic content of the journal into English. While some of the loose letter in the journal were marked secret, most secret etc, none of its contents could, given the time lapse, have been construed to be of a sensitive nature. I had in fact hoped to pop into the London School of Oriental Languages that day to see whether they could assist in translation, but did not have the time to do so.
I had also been invited to visit Pakistan, more specifically Jacobabad, where I have a number of acquaintances. I had applied for and received a visa to do so some months earlier. In the event, I did not go. I was advised in a phone call with the Deputy High Commissioner in Karachi not to do so, as my safety could not be guaranteed.
Tags: david pritchard jones, gerry's club soho, john martin, london, richard moore
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