sleep well.
Helen had used the toilet twice since Mitchell had been that first time and the routine was now well established. When the newsagent gave the nod, Mitchell picked up the small key which Akhtar had tossed to the floor in front of him then leaned across Helen’s lap and attempted to unfasten her cuff.
Akhtar stood safely out of reach, the gun trained on the pair of them.
It was not easy, as Mitchell was right-handed and was forced to try and unlock the cuffs with his left. He had managed it after a minute or two the first couple of times, but on this occasion he seemed to be struggling.
‘Just go easy,’ Helen said.
His hand was shaking and he cursed under his breath.
‘You really don’t want me to piss myself.’
Mitchell took a deep breath and made another attempt, the key grasped between his thumb and forefinger as he stretched awkwardly to manoeuvre it into the tiny lock. Just as it looked as though he had succeeded, the key slipped from his grasp and dropped to the floor.
‘Can I not just do it myself?’ Helen asked. ‘Please.’
Akhtar shook his head. Said, ‘The same way as before.’
Groaning with the effort, Mitchell strained to pick up the key. He pushed clumsily at the lock and missed. He tried again, then sat back up and threw the key down hard.
‘I can’t do this.’
The key settled on the scarred and dirty lino a few feet in front of him.
‘Just relax, Stephen,’ Helen said. ‘Give it another go.’
‘No… ’
Helen watched Akhtar take two steps forward, the gun held out in front of him, and something cold fluttered in her chest. From the corner of her eye she caught the look on Mitchell’s face, but even as she saw what was coming, it was too late to do anything about it.
Akhtar let his eyes drop to where the key had fallen, just for a moment, but long enough for Mitchell to launch himself forward, stretch out his arm and get a hand on the gun.
Helen screamed Mitchell’s name.
Mitchell pulled hard at the gun, dragging Akhtar towards him and on to his knees. The newsagent gasped in panic. He shook his head. Then they were both shouting, ‘No, please,’ and ‘Give it to me,’ and the metal handcuff clattered against the radiator pipe as Mitchell fought to wrench the gun from Akhtar’s hand.
Helen leaned across and clawed at Mitchell’s arm.
She opened her mouth to say his name again, then the explosion forced her back hard against the radiator and down on to her side.
She kept her eyes closed while the gunshot’s report sang in her ears.
TWENTY-THREE
Every officer in the hall was silent, frozen at their station. Donnelly was on his feet. ‘Was that what I think it was?’
He and Pascoe stared at the monitors. They watched as firearms officers who had been leaning casually against their vehicles scrambled to take up combat stances and trained their weapons on the shop. They turned to see Chivers pick up his helmet and his Heckler and Koch carbine and rush from the hall to join his team, then turned back to the monitors to see him appear on screen twenty seconds later and take up a position himself.
‘Oh, Jesus,’ Pascoe said.
Donnelly studied the monitor for half a minute. There was no further movement. He pointed to the phone in Pascoe’s hand.
Said, ‘Call.’
The number had been programmed into speed dial. Pascoe hit the button and waited. The click of connection popped from the speakers and, a few seconds later, the ringing of Helen Weeks’ phone began to echo, tinny and grating, around the hall.
The call went to voicemail.
Hi, this is Helen. Up to my eyes in something or other, so please-
‘Again,’ Donnelly said.
Pascoe ended the call and hit redial. The phone rang three times, then was answered.
‘Helen?’
There was a long pause before Helen Weeks said, ‘Yeah.’
‘It’s Sue Pascoe.’ Pascoe waited. ‘Helen?’
‘Yes… I’m here.’
‘Is everything OK in there? We heard what sounded like a gunshot.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Was it a gunshot, Helen?’
‘It was a stupid accident-’
‘Are you all right?’ Pascoe asked. ‘Is Mr Mitchell all right?’
‘We’re both fine. It was just… an accident, that’s all, so no need to panic.’
Pascoe felt the tension in her shoulders, in the room, lift a little. She watched Donnelly let out a breath as he leaned against the table. The next question was obvious enough. There was still the possibility that the hostage taker had turned the gun on himself.
‘Mr Akhtar?’
‘He’s fine too,’ Helen said.
There were more than a few in the hall who struggled to hide their disappointment.
‘What happened?’
‘The gun went off, that’s all. No harm done and nobody hurt. Well, except for the bloody ringing in my ears.’
‘As long as everything’s OK.’
‘Yes… look, I’m sorry if you were worried. I’m sure everyone started getting a bit jumpy out there.’
Pascoe put a laugh into her voice. ‘Yeah, just a bit.’
There was a longer pause before Helen said, ‘This is going to sound a bit pathetic, but I really need the loo, so… ’
‘OK,’ Pascoe said. ‘We’ll talk again soon.’
The line went dead.
Pascoe looked at Donnelly, but he was already on the radio, reporting the conversation to Chivers. A minute later, the CO19 man came marching back into the hall. He dropped his helmet on the table next to the monitor and grabbed a bottle of water. He looked rather less relieved than everyone else in the room. ‘Up to me, we’d be going in,’ he said.
Donnelly nodded, picked at one of the buttons on his jacket.
‘ What? ’ Pascoe said.
‘How do we know it was just an accident?’
‘I spoke to Sergeant Weeks.’
‘I’m well aware of what she said, but how the hell can we be sure she wasn’t made to say it? How can we trust anything she tells us?’
‘There was nothing to indicate any form of coercion,’ Pascoe said.
Chivers shook his head, then took out his Glock and held it against his temple. ‘It was just a silly accident, nothing to worry about.’ He widened his eyes, spoke in a robotic monotone. ‘We’re all fine, honestly, having a lovely time-’
‘That’s enough,’ Donnelly said.
‘Her speech patterns were normal,’ Pascoe said. ‘The rhythms, the way she was breathing. I know about all that stuff.’
