‘I’m sure they’ll be calling soon.’
Akhtar smiled and reached for the remote. ‘We can find out, maybe.’ He turned the sound up on the television, then stood to angle the set so that Helen could see the screen. ‘Good idea?’
They watched for a few minutes until, on the half-hour, Breakfast Time handed over to BBC London for what the smarmy presenter called the ‘news where you are’. The local anchor looked serious as a stock shot of an armed police officer appeared behind her.
‘There are no new developments this morning in the armed siege at a newsagent’s in south London. Overnight, there had been unconfirmed reports of a gunshot from inside the premises, but police have so far refused to comment. They have assured reporters in the last few minutes that both hostages, including an unnamed police officer, are alive and well, and that everything possible is being done to resolve the situation quickly and peacefully.’
Another picture. A different expression. An interview with a local gymnast.
‘So,’ Helen said.
Akhtar grunted and went back to his tea, as though the story they had just heard about had nothing whatsoever to do with him. He nodded towards the television. ‘Shall I leave it on?’
‘I don’t mind.’
‘We might as well.’
It was almost surreal, Helen thought. As though he were trying to restore some level of normality to the situation. However incongruous that notion might be with one of them handcuffed to a radiator, one armed with a gun and another growing cold in the next room.
‘I can never usually watch at this time,’ he said. ‘The shop is always so busy, you know?’
So Helen brushed the crumbs from her bloodied skirt and they sat, like any other two people enjoying their breakfast, and watched the rest of the morning’s news.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Thorne was back at the RVP by nine-thirty. In the playground, the small catering van known to all and sundry as ‘Teapot One’ was still serving hot bacon rolls and Thorne could not resist. He saw Sue Pascoe smoking at the side of the main school building and wandered over.
‘You’ll get a detention for that,’ he said.
She took another drag, nodding towards what was left of the roll in Thorne’s hand. ‘And you’ll get hardened arteries.’ She touched a little finger to the side of her mouth. ‘You’ve got… ’
Thorne wiped away the ketchup. ‘So what happened last night? This gunshot.’
Pascoe shook her head. ‘The gun went off, that’s all she said. Maybe he dropped it or something.’
‘Or fired it to prove it was loaded?’
‘Helen said it was an accident and I’m convinced she was saying that of her own free will.’ She turned and crushed the cigarette butt against the wall behind her. ‘Whatever happened, it was enough to give Chivers a stiffy.’
‘I don’t think it takes much,’ Thorne said.
The look on Pascoe’s face told him she was every bit as wary of the CO19 team leader as he was. Another one of many who thought that a significant number of firearms officers took themselves a little too seriously and were rather too enamoured of the alpha-male canteen culture. There had been a minor scandal the year before, when one of their number was accused of slipping song titles into the evidence he was giving at an inquest. This had generated plenty of comic mileage throughout the Met, but sadly, many of those tough-as-old-boots alpha males in CO19 had shown themselves unable to take a joke.
‘So, all quiet overnight then?’
Pascoe explained that an agreement had been reached late the night before between the outgoing team and those replacing them to make no further calls to Helen Weeks until the morning. Nobody believed that anyone inside would be getting a lot of sleep, but it had been decided that it would be best for everyone concerned to let hostages, and hostage taker get as much rest as possible. While the replacement negotiator and firearms officers had remained on high alert throughout the night, there had been no proactive moves made from an operational standpoint, and no calls had been received from inside the newsagent’s.
‘Always good to come through the first night,’ Pascoe said. ‘Thing is though, as time goes on and everyone inside there gets more and more exhausted, they also get less predictable. And that’s more ammunition for those that want to get this resolved sooner rather than later.’
As if on cue, Chivers appeared. He gave Thorne a nod, then focused on Pascoe. ‘Donnelly’s looking for you,’ he said. ‘Time to put another call in.’
Pascoe hurried back towards the entrance and Thorne and Chivers followed a few steps behind.
‘So how’s it going your end?’ Chivers asked. He lowered his voice as though he did not want Pascoe to overhear.
Thorne looked at him. ‘Well, I’ve not made an arrest as yet, if that’s what you want to know.’
‘What I want to know is how likely it is that you can give the man in that shop what he’s asking for. How likely and how long.’
‘There’s no way I can answer that.’
‘Well, you might have to think of one.’
Thorne kept smiling. ‘I’ll do my best.’
‘Listen, I need to think about what my options are,’ Chivers said. ‘Do you understand?’ He jabbed a finger in the direction of the newsagent’s. ‘When he runs out of patience.’
‘Oh, I understand,’ Thorne said. ‘Because I’m not an idiot, you know?’ He shouldered open the doors and turned towards the hall. ‘Sounds to me though like you’re the one that’s getting impatient.’ He took a few steps. ‘Maybe you should relax a little, mate. Take it easy , you know, instead of living on a prayer. One day at a time, sweet Jesus.’
Chivers stared for a few seconds, until the penny dropped. ‘Song titles,’ he said. ‘Funny.’
Donnelly was waiting at the monitors and as soon as he saw Thorne and Chivers approaching, he gave Pascoe the go-ahead to make the call. Pascoe nodded and made final adjustments to the headset she had connected via Bluetooth to her mobile.
Thorne saw that photographs of the two hostages had been taped to the edges of the monitor. He presumed that Pascoe had done it. A reminder to herself that they were dealing with human beings.
Stephen Mitchell was grinning in sunglasses and a garish shirt. A holiday snap, presumably provided by his wife.
The picture of Helen Weeks had clearly been faxed over from the Met’s HR department. A straightforward ID photograph, but Thorne recognised the woman he had last seen at a funeral more than a year before. The soft features and ash-blonde hair. She looked serious in the picture, but this too was how he remembered her. Heavily pregnant with a dead boyfriend, there had not been much to smile about back then.
Next to him, Pascoe dialled. She moved the small microphone into position and cleared her throat.
Not an awful lot to smile about now, Thorne thought.
Helen Weeks’ phone rang three times, then Akhtar answered. They all looked at one another anxiously as the newsagent’s voice rang out from the speakers.
‘Hello.’
‘Javed… this is Sue Pascoe. I spoke to you yesterday.’
‘I know who you are.’
‘I need to speak to Helen. Is that possible?’
‘What, you need to speak to her because you have something to say or you need to check that she is all right?’
‘Can I speak to her?’
Akhtar’s voice faded a little as he said, ‘They want to know that you are all right.’ Then, after a second or two, Helen shouted, ‘We’re both fine, Sue. I could murder a decent cup of coffee and a sausage sandwich
