‘I’ll consult with whomever I need to,’ Donnelly said, ‘but I’m calling the shots. Not that it’s a particularly suitable phrase, considering the circumstances.’
‘Probably not,’ Thorne said. He thought, considering the circumstances, that nobody should give a tuppenny toss about whether a phrase was suitable or not, but he bit his tongue. He just hoped he had made his point about Chivers. He’d come across that sort enough times to worry that the man leading the Tactical Firearms Unit could prove every bit as dangerous to Helen Weeks’ safety as a newsagent with a gun.
‘I need to go and get this call set up,’ Donnelly said.
‘You’re sure he’s calmed down?’
‘That’s why Pascoe’s keen to do it now. We need to talk to him, or if not then at least talk to him through DS Weeks. We want to let him know that we’re doing everything we can to get this resolved, but above all we need to make sure he’s stable.’
‘Up to you, obviously, but isn’t Helen under enough pressure as it is?’
‘Like it or not she’s our go-between, so we don’t have a lot of choice.’
‘I suppose not.’ Thorne could hear voices in the background. Sue Pascoe’s and Nadira Akhtar’s.
‘If it all goes well,’ Donnelly said, ‘we’re going to see if he’ll talk to his wife.’
Thorne remembered Nadira Akhtar’s face when he’d talked to her in the car a couple of hours before, when she’d considered the possibility of her husband ever hurting anyone. Thinking about it, the wad of damp tissue squeezed in her fist.
Now I cannot be so sure…
‘Are you saying you’re worried about her?’
‘His wife?’
‘DS Weeks.’
‘No more so than I would be about any other officer,’ Thorne said.
A clatter echoed down the corridor from somewhere deep on the wing, followed swiftly by jeering and catcalls. There were whistles and a few seconds of clapping until it was silenced by the voice of a prison officer.
‘I spoke to a couple of her colleagues,’ Donnelly said, ‘and as far as they’re aware, she’s never been in a seriously threatening situation before. They weren’t altogether sure how she’d handle it.’
‘She’s not going to do anything stupid.’
‘You’re sure about that?’
‘She’s got a child.’
‘Yes, I know, but that means she could well react… emotionally, which might not be the best thing for anyone.’
‘She’ll be fine.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ Donnelly said. ‘I know you’ve had some dealings with her in the past.’
Thorne doubted that anyone Helen Weeks worked with would know too much about what she had been through a year before. Her partner’s murder and the risks she had run to find out who had been responsible. He did not know all the facts himself, but he knew what an ordeal it had been.
He knew that she had come through it.
‘I think we need to trust her,’ Thorne said.
As much as she’ll be trusting us.
Trusting me.
Thorne glanced up as a small group of boys ambled past, escorted by a prison officer. Teeth were sucked and curses muttered. Thorne met the eyes of the angriest-looking and held them. ‘I honestly don’t think we could ask for anyone better in there,’ he said.
Akhtar had not said much when he had reappeared in the storeroom after his bout of destruction in the shop. He had been sweating and had taken off his cardigan to mop his face and neck. Though most of the hair on top of his head had gone, there were silver-streaked tufts above his ears that were sticking up and he smoothed them down with small, delicate hands. When he had finally sat down, Helen could see that the redness in his face was as much the result of embarrassment as exertion.
‘Stupid,’ he’d said.
Then he had passed Helen her mobile phone and told her to call Tom Thorne…
He sat thinking for a few minutes after the call was finished, then stood up and fetched a broom that was leaning against a stack of shelves. He put the gun down on the desk, then, careful not to get too close, he swept the empty crisp packets, cans and chocolate wrappers towards him. He stuffed them into a plastic bag and carried it across to a black rubbish bin in the corner.
He sat down again and picked up the gun.
‘Seems a bit daft to go on a cleaning spree,’ Helen said. ‘Considering the mess you must have made out there.’
The redness returned to Akhtar’s face. ‘I know, but that foolishness is no reason you should have to sit in here with rubbish stinking everywhere.’
Helen was still wearing her jacket. Her underarms were clammy and her blouse was pasted to her back. ‘I think that might be me,’ she said. She held up her free arm. ‘Can I…?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Akhtar said. ‘Slowly, please.’
Helen moved her shoulder until she had enough room to pull the arm that was free up through the sleeve of her jacket. Then she shuffled it behind her back and shook it down until finally the jacket was gathered around the hand that was cuffed to the radiator pipe. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Shame you were right about the weather.’
Akhtar asked Mitchell if he would like to do the same.
‘I’m OK,’ Mitchell said. ‘Thank you.’
‘I’m sorry you can’t be more comfortable,’ Akhtar said. ‘But we are stuck with things as they are, so… ’
‘We don’t have to be stuck with anything,’ Helen said. ‘You heard what Thorne said.’
‘I heard what you said.’
‘He’s doing everything he can to find out what happened to Amin. He’s talking to people.’
Akhtar smiled. ‘People lie to policemen as often as they lie to anyone else. More, I think. People lie all the time.’
‘How about if I promise not to lie to you, Javed?’ Helen looked at him. ‘How about that?’
The newsagent shrugged. ‘You will say whatever you think I want to hear, because I am pointing a gun at you.’
‘I won’t lie, OK? I need you to trust me.’
Akhtar turned away, apparently uninterested, but Helen could see that he was considering what she had said.
When he looked back, he nodded down at Mitchell. ‘Is he all right?’
Other than refusing the chance to remove his jacket, Mitchell had not spoken in almost half an hour. He was staring at the floor between his knees. He was shaking.
‘He’s frightened,’ Helen said. ‘That’s all.’
‘Are you?’
‘I’m frightened for my son.’
Akhtar nodded and turned away again. He folded his arms. Helen could see that he was doing his best to appear hard-bitten and unconcerned, but he was not even close to carrying it off.
‘You get used to it,’ he said.
There were plenty more hard looks and insults as Thorne walked through the wing towards the library. It was not a novelty and he heard nothing he had not heard many times before, though he was a little surprised to find that it was the youngest boys who were the worst. One particular double-act who could not have been older than fourteen got extremely worked up; telling Thorne exactly what they thought of him, what they would happily do to his wife and mother, before being gently admonished by a prison officer who was clearly more of a Barraclough than a Mackay.
All par for the course.
Approaching the library, Thorne saw two more likely lads hanging around outside the doors and prepared himself for another bout of industrial-strength badinage. He was pleasantly surprised to see them hurrying away as
