Ultimatum

So far no one seemed to be taking any notice of the parked cars, although the senior officers on the scene would get round to checking them fairly soon. They’d probably already blocked the mobile phone signal in the immediate area to prevent any booby-trap bombs being set off remotely. Secondary devices were a known hallmark of Islamic terrorists. At the moment, though, the situation on the ground was still in its early semi-chaotic stages.

The man looked at his watch. One minute to detonation.

He took a cheap mobile phone from the outer pocket of his jacket and speed-dialled the single number stored on it. ‘This is the Islamic Command,’ he announced into the voice disguiser as the man on the Evening Standard news desk picked up. ‘Two more bombs are about to explode. There will be no further attacks if our demands are met.’ He ended the call and switched off the phone, throwing it out of the window into some bushes.

The Sky News Copter was still filming the scene when there was a huge flash of light, accompanied by a very loud bang, from among the parked cars, followed moments later by a second blast from inside one of the flats. The camera shook and the helicopter banked, temporarily losing its view of the scene as the programme suddenly went to split screen, showing a visibly shaken anchorwoman with her hand on her mouth as it became clear to her that she’d just witnessed a second bomb attack.

The man shut the iPad case, and pulled away from the kerb.

It was time to meet their new recruit.

Twelve

10.40

HMP Westmoor was a very big, very bland-looking modern prison set slap bang in the middle of glorious rolling Hertfordshire countryside. It was, Tina thought, like some kind of immense fortified municipal library, and it had been an act of architectural barbarism to put it in such a beautiful place.

As she walked towards the reception area, it struck her that she could very easily have ended up in a place like this. It was only a little over a year since she’d killed a man with a single blow to the head. The fact that the man in question, twenty-one-year-old Liam Roy Shetland, had been one of the terrorists involved in the Stanhope siege and was about to murder two kidnapped children was still not perceived as sufficient justification for what she’d done.

Although she and Shetland had been fighting, and Tina had sustained a number of injuries herself, he’d had his back to her when she’d hit him with a piece of piping, and for weeks afterwards charges had been hanging over her head. She’d been lucky. Public and political pressure had helped her, as had the fact that Shetland was going for a gun at the time. Tina was a hero in some people’s eyes, the kind of tough, no-nonsense cop that the UK was sorely lacking these days. ‘Dirty Harriet’ the Daily Mail had called her, which was far more preferable than ‘The Black Widow’ moniker that had haunted her ever since one of her colleagues had been killed on a job they were both working on. Politicians, sniffing an opportunity as always, had also got involved, singing her praises (but with plenty of caveats, of course), several of them pushing for her reinstatement in the force, which was how she’d finally ended up in Westminster CID.

Westmoor was a maximum-security prison, housing only Category A offenders, and those awaiting trial for the most serious crimes. It was built in a wheel shape, with the six spokes representing separate wings, each of which could be sealed off from the others, and a separate prison-within-a-prison section in the centre where only those guilty of, or charged with, the most serious crimes were held, and it was here that Fox was currently residing.

Having filled out all the forms and passed through security, Tina’s first port of call, however, was the governor’s office.

The governor, a tall white-haired man in his sixties with a slight stoop, a bow tie, and the air of a weary academic, got up from behind a cluttered desk next to the room’s only window. ‘I’m Jeremy Goodman,’ he said, giving her a surprisingly firm handshake and a quick once-over, before motioning her to take a seat opposite him. ‘So you’re the famous Tina Boyd. I’ve read a lot about you over the years.’

‘All bad I’m sure.’

Goodman didn’t smile. ‘All very interesting,’ he said after a short pause, his silence confirming that yes, it had all been bad. ‘And you’re here to see William Garrett?’

‘That’s right. I understand he was attacked three days ago. Can you tell me what happened?’

Goodman nodded, an expression of distaste sitting all too easily on his face. ‘It was a most regrettable incident. We pride ourselves here at Westmoor on the peaceful, tolerant environment we’ve fostered, and as such, relations between individual prisoners, and between prisoners and staff, are generally very good. This fight was a rarity. There was a confrontation between Mr Garrett and another Category A prisoner, Eric Hughes, inside the main recreational area toilets of the prison’s Central Maximum Security Section, where they’re both housed. Both prisoners were injured, and were hospitalized in separate sections of the hospital here. They’ve since been released from the hospital, but we don’t know what caused their altercation, since both prisoners refused to cooperate with the police when they were interviewed yesterday.’

‘Was it captured on film?’

‘No. The camera covering the main area of the toilet was out of order. By the time the control room realized it wasn’t working, and had organized someone from maintenance to examine it, the fight was over.’

‘So it suggests a degree of planning.’

‘I honestly don’t know,’ said Goodman defensively. ‘Two of our officers heard the commotion from the toilets. They ran inside and intervened.’

‘You describe it as a fight, but Mr Garrett sustained some major slash wounds. It sounds like he was attacked by the other man.’

‘We can’t be certain. The camera in the corridor outside recorded each man going into the toilets approximately thirty seconds apart, but it was impossible to see which one was carrying the knife. And when the officers went in, the two men were struggling violently on the floor, with Mr Garrett on top of Mr Hughes, punching him, even though he was losing a lot of blood. The homemade knife that was used was a few feet away. It’s been taken away by the police for examination, and we’re awaiting the results.’

‘Can you tell me about the other prisoner — Mr Hughes? What’s he in here for?’

‘Murder. I’m afraid Eric Hughes is a man with a very violent background. He killed a man during an aggravated burglary eight years ago — one of a series of similar crimes that left a further two people seriously injured.’

‘When’s he due for his parole hearing?’ asked Tina, unable to quite hide the cynicism in her voice.

‘The minimum tariff for Mr Hughes set by the judge was eighteen years, so it’ll be another decade at least before he can be considered for release. He may have a violent past but his behaviour since he’s been at Westmoor has generally been very good prior to the incident on Monday.’

‘I’m going to need to speak with him while I’m here.’

‘As I said, he’s already been interviewed by the local CID, and he refused to cooperate.’

‘Maybe I can sweet-talk him into admitting something,’ said Tina with a slight smile.

‘Maybe you can. I’ll see what I can arrange,’ Goodman answered tightly, as if it was an inconvenience.

Tina was used to certain people taking an instant dislike to her — it was the kind of thing that happened when you’d attracted the sort of headlines she had — but she was a little surprised by the cold reception she was getting here. She’d expected more from a man running one of the country’s toughest prisons. ‘Thank you, I’d appreciate that. As for Mr Garrett, I understand he wants to cooperate with the inquiry into the Stanhope attacks.’

‘Yes. He made contact with one of the prison officers this morning, after he saw footage of the bomb in London on the news. He said that he knew who’d done it, but refused to talk to anyone other than you.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Do you have any idea why that might be?’

Tina shook her head. ‘No. I’ve had no contact with him whatsoever. I’m not even working on the inquiry. At least I wasn’t until an hour ago.’