seen something on the news. Helen hoped it would not be a uniformed officer knocking on Janine’s door. Some big awkward oaf scooping Alfie up and carrying him out to a squad car. No, they would have told Jenny, surely… which was probably the best thing.
Good in a crisis, her younger sister. Organised. Cold.
She rolled her wrist around inside the metal cuff.
Proof positive, of course, that Jenny had been right all along. Had known best, as usual. Hard enough to cope on your own, never mind going back to a job like that. Not so quickly anyway. Think about the baby.
Now look where you’ve got your bloody self!
She wondered if they were outside. Jenny and her dad. The old man nagging every copper he could get hold of, demanding to be told what was being done, with Jenny trying to keep him calm. Taking charge and finding out where the tea and biscuits were.
Being Mum.
She tried not to think about it, but it was like trying not to breathe.
At least Jenny knew the best way to get Alfie off. Helen had shown her plenty of times, enjoyed showing her.
Small circles, low down on his back-
‘It’s going to be OK, isn’t it?’ Mitchell asked suddenly. ‘You said so before. I mean, you’re not just saying it, are you?’
She looked at him. He was blinking quickly and trying to smile. He looked like a little boy.
Her phone rang.
She stared at it – the vibration causing the handset to inch across the floor between her legs – until Akhtar came hurrying back in.
‘Is it Thorne?’
Helen shook her head. She did not recognise the number. She pointed towards the front of the shop. ‘Probably them,’ she said. ‘They’ll want to talk to you.’
Akhtar sat down and picked up the gun. He let the phone ring for another few seconds, then nodded.
‘Answer it.’
On his way back towards the library, Thorne slipped into one of the prison officers’ tea rooms to call Holland. He walked into the corner and took out his phone, smiling at the two occupants, despite stares only marginally less aggressive than those he’d received out on the landing.
‘Any joy?’
‘Slater’s old man was as much of an arsehole as you’d expect,’ Holland said. ‘But he was surprised enough to hear that Amin was dead.’
Thorne wasn’t surprised to hear it. A result that fast was way too much to hope for. ‘What about Lee Slater’s mates?’
‘Clarkson wasn’t in and we’re just on our way to see Armstrong.’
‘OK. Quick as you can, Dave.’ Thorne heard Kitson in the background, saying she couldn’t find a place to park. ‘Just park anywhere,’ he shouted.
Holland said something, but Thorne lost it in the blare of a passing siren.
‘Dave?’
‘I said, what about you?’
‘What?’
‘Any joy?’
Thorne was still struggling to process everything he’d heard and seen since he’d arrived at Barndale. The reactions to Amin Akhtar’s death from Bracewell and McCarthy. The psychological analysis from Shakir. He looked at his watch, then glanced across at the two POs cradling mugs of tea and looking as though they could not wait for the day to end.
‘Precious little in here,’ Thorne said.
FIFTEEN
Sue Pascoe was grateful – despite the speakers that had been set up to listen in – that the microphone on her handset was not sensitive enough to pick up the sound of her heart beating.
The phone continued to ring out…
She had done everything required of her up to this point, gathering all available information about both hostages and hostage taker and working to formulate a negotiation strategy, but that would be worth next to nothing if this first call did not go well. The initial contact with the hostage taker was always the most delicate part of any operation. The foundation on which, if it went according to the textbook, everything else could be built.
The problem was that Javed Akhtar was anything but a textbook hostage taker.
Outside of situations involving domestic disputes or disgruntled employees, hostage takers usually fitted neatly into one of four categories: criminals, the mentally disturbed, prisoners or terrorists. They were part of structured groups or they were unstable individuals and the actual taking of hostages was either well planned or spontaneous.
It was easy enough to see which of these boxes Akhtar ticked, but from that point on he had ceased to be predictable.
To be someone you could be trained to deal with.
The received wisdom was that any hostage taker was faced with three options. He could surrender to the police. He could lessen his demands and continue to negotiate. Or he could choose martyrdom by killing the hostages and/or himself. Akhtar could yet choose to do any of these of course, but trying to predict which and guiding him towards an outcome in which nobody was harmed depended almost entirely on what he was demanding.
There were well-structured reactions to demands for money, or drugs, or the release of comrades in arms. There was an accepted response to a simple need for attention. This time though, Sue Pascoe listened to the phone ring inside the newsagent’s shop and felt as though she would be making it up as she went along, because the man who was holding two hostages at gunpoint appeared to want nothing but answers.
And she could not be sure Tom Thorne would be able to provide the ones he was looking for.
Done much of this? he had asked her. Cheeky bastard obviously thought he was God’s gift.
All those gathered around the speakers in the school hall leaned that little bit closer when the call was answered. Donnelly gave Sue Pascoe the nod and the hostage negotiator spoke softly into the phone.
‘Helen?’
‘Who’s this?’
Pascoe looked at Donnelly who quickly nodded his understanding. It was clear from the echo that Helen Weeks’ phone was also on speaker. That Akhtar was listening in.
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Sue Pascoe and I’m working here with the team that’s trying to get this situation resolved, OK?’
‘OK… ’
‘First of all, how are you doing in there?’
‘I’ve been better, obviously.’
Pascoe gave Donnelly a thumbs-up. Always a good sign if the hostage felt able to make light of their predicament. That they were permitted to by the person holding them. ‘Well, I can promise you that everything’s being done to get this sorted out as fast as possible.’
‘What about my son?’
Another look to Donnelly, who shrugged. It had been agreed that Pascoe would try to avoid talking about Helen Weeks’ child, but clearly the subject could not be avoided if Helen Weeks brought it up.
‘That’s all taken care of, Helen. You don’t need to worry about that.’ Pascoe knew at once that it was a stupid thing to say. Of course she would be worried. ‘We’ve made all the arrangements, OK?’
‘OK… ’
